Living in the Past
by aussiemel1
Summary: Dean suffers partial amnesia after an accident and Sam has to decide what information his brother needs to know about the past, at the same time as they try to prevent another seal being broken. Set in Season 4, AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I originally posted this story in 2009, during season 4, then removed it because I didn't get it finished (so if you have deja vu reading, it may be that you read it before). I'm currently working on the final chapter and will post it in the next few weeks. The story takes place in season 4, after Heaven and Hell, when Dean is struggling with his recollections of Hell, especially after seeing Alistair, and has revealed to Sam that he wishes "he couldn't feel a damn thing". Sam is best buddies with Ruby and meeting secretly with her to practice using his demon blood enhanced powers. Okay, you're up to date.

* * *

**Living in the Past**

Sam sees the accident through a Starbucks window. And it's kind of surreal. They aren't on the job, they aren't doing anything dangerous, he's just getting coffee, Dean's just getting the paper. He wasn't expecting any drama, and it's a surprising reminder to him that things just happen. In everyday life things just happen, ready or not.

He's waiting for his name to be called, watching Dean walk toward him across the road, frowning at the newspaper in his hand, shaking his head a little in a way that makes Sam smile and wonder what he's reading. Dean stops at the curb, gives a quick glance each way and there's an SUV double parked on his left that he regards, lingers on the kerb for a moment, waiting to see if it's about to move and when he's satisfied that it isn't, he steps onto the road and drops his head back down to the paper.

He doesn't see the car _behind_ the SUV. Doesn't see the driver impatiently jerk the wheel and put a foot on the gas.

Sam sees it because he's looking from a different angle. There is a sharp, anticipatory moment where he foresees what could occur, that car and brother are on the same trajectory, and he has a flash of panic because he's too far away to warn Dean, too far away to do anything other than silently chant _don't step out, don't step out, don't step out_. And he has a desperate faith that Dean will see the danger. _He'll see it, he'll see it, he'll see it._

But Dean doesn't see it. And the driver doesn't see Dean until the very last minute.

Sam holds his breath through the sharp screech of tyres and the sickening thud that is car hitting man. He lets the air out raggedly, fearing that his brother may be dead, one of those quirks of human nature to immediately assume the worst_. _But he crushes the thought quickly because the car wasn't going that fast. So Dean is probably fine. Definitely _not _dead_._

His mind's all over the place. Dean's dead... Dean's fine...Dean's somewhere in between. Emotion crushes his lungs, making it hard to breathe, and he flattens his hands against the window trying to get a better view, rising up on his toes to try and see past the cars.

There are murmurs in the coffee shop of _did you see that? Is that guy okay? _and suddenly Sam thinks _Why am I still here_? Dean is just outside. He curses his slowness, hopes he didn't just lose thirty crucial seconds, and races out the door.

There are already people on the scene, milling around, frustratingly in the way as Sam approaches. He can see between the gaps that Dean's laying on the ground, that he's not moving and it makes him determined to reach his brother NOW. He shoulders a couple of people aside, too roughly and he doesn't care, and crouches next to his brother.

Dean is unconscious, but in a deceptively peaceful kind of way. There's no obvious blood, his body isn't twisted or broken, he's breathing fine, he _looks _fine... except for the not being awake part. And Sam is mildly relieved, the tightness in his chest loosens a little.

"Dean? Hey? Can you hear me? Wake up man."

"What?" Dean groans, as his eyelids flutter. His head shifts toward Sam's voice and his body tries to follow, hands press against the tarmac as he instinctively tries to rise, but Sam stops him with a palm to the chest.

"Just lay still for a minute. Don't get up yet."

Dean blinks rapidly and brings an unsteady hand to his face, splays his fingers across his forehead and clamps down hard like he's concerned about his brain spilling out.

"What happened?" he croaks.

"You tell me," Sam returns, testing awareness. "What happened?"

There's no reply and Sam doesn't know if it's because Dean can't remember or if he's too engaged in trying to chase away the pain in his head. After a few moments Dean's hand leaves his eyes and he looks around, trying to orient himself. When his gaze rests on Sam's face he visibly startles, his eyes widen in surprise, but the look is quickly chased away by a frown. He rolls onto his side and levers himself upward with some groans and sharp breaths.

"No... don't... wait..." But Sam's protests are useless, he knows a losing battle, and he grudgingly offers a hand at Dean's back to help him up, leaves it there to keep him steady.

Dean shrugs at the support, muttering, "I'm okay," but it's unconvincing when he's cradling his head in his hands, pressing the heels hard against his brow. He obviously recognises the disparity between words and actions and adds as a concession, "I've been worse."

And Sam can't disagree with that, he's certainly seen Dean worse. Now that he's sitting up there's a gash revealed at the back of his head, trickling blood into the collar, but it doesn't look too deep, it may not even need thread, and that appears to be the sum total of injuries. Dean's aware enough now that he would be clutching any part that's in pain, and the head seems to be it. Which is miraculous. An incredibly lucky outcome from an entanglement with a car.

A siren sounds in the distance and Sam wonders if it's for Dean, if someone called an ambulance. And if they did, he wonders if they should wait for it. The injuries seem minor and an ambulance is a complication that requires fake cards, fake insurance - which they could deal with if they had to, but he doesn't think they really have to.

Dean peers sideways at him, from under his hand. It's strangely furtive. Like he's trying to stare at Sam without being caught.

"What?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," Dean returns, with a too casual half shrug. "I just didn't expect to see you."

Sam is puzzled by that. "Why not? You got hit by a car. You thought the coffee was more important?"

Dean looks at Sam in confusion. He's not following. And it confuses Sam because he's not sure which part Dean isn't following. He seems a bit vague and Sam's pretty sure there's an underlying concussion. Which is nothing to panic about, he knows how to handle that, they both know the routine.

Dean's eyes move to the faces in the small crowd, darting among them, looking for something. Sam finds himself doing the same thing, peering into the crowd, but he's not sure why, he's not sure what might be there.

"Is something wrong?" he asks finally, a little exasperated. "What are you looking for?"

"No-one," Dean says quickly, dropping his gaze.

Sam exhales slowly. _No-one. Great. _He realizes with a sigh that it's going to be one of _those_ kinds of concussion, where Dean acts oddly and speaks in non-sequiters. Fun for twenty four hours.

There's a long pause while Dean absently picks at flayed skin on his palm, then nonchalantly asks, "So... did you come with Dad?"

_Whoa. What?_

Alarm bells start ringing. Sam's not sure where _that_ question came from. Yeah, okay, concussion. But Dad's been dead a few years now, and that's exhibiting a level of disorientation beyond the normal.

Sam says slowly, _"_No, Dean, I came with you. We came to this town together."

"Right," Dean says with a nod, but Sam sees a worrying bewilderment behind his eyes.

"Do you know where you are?" Sam asks, prickling with concern and looking for a base line, a starting point for the confusion.

"I know I'm sitting in the middle of the street," Dean returns. "I know that people are gawking at me like it's feeding time at the zoo. Do I need to know more?"

And Sam thinks, _there he is, that's the smartass I know. He's fine._ But there's something in the way Dean can't look at him, keeps glancing and fleeing, that isn't right. Something about asking for Dad that he can't gloss over.

"Do you know what town we're in?" Sam persists.

"Christ Sam, my head is killing me, do I really need to pass a geography test?"

"Humor me."

Dean doesn't say anything, presses his lips together stubbornly and looks like he's not going to answer. But Sam pushes, "Do you know what _state_ we're in?"

Dean huffs an annoyed breath and gives a small, resigned shake of the head. "I don't know," he murmurs, then thinks about it for a moment and says with certainty, "Louisiana."

It's not even close.

"Um, do you have a second guess?" Sam says, and he's willing to cut his brother some slack, they move around a lot, they've only been in the state a few days, it's actually a tough question for someone who's had a knock to the head. But at the same time he's thinking_ when were we last in Louisiana? _He can't even remember_._

Dean looks at him sharply. "What? We're in Louisiana. Aren't we_?_ It's gotta be." But he doesn't sound sure. His eyes flick over the streetscape then he presses fingers to his brow, concentrates for a second, and shakes his head in defeat. "I keep coming back to Louisiana. If it's something else you're gonna have to tell me." He points at Sam. "Are _you _sure you know where we are?"

Sam's eyebrows draw down indignantly but he doesn't rise to the bait, he doesn't say anything, wanting Dean to sort out the memory block on his own.

"Maybe..." Dean sighs. "Maybe, you should just call Dad and tell him where we are. Man, he's not going to be happy. I was supposed to meet him today. You know how he is about being kept waiting."

Sam's mouth drops open. He doesn't know how to respond to _that_.

Before he has a chance to, Dean's face suddenly drains of color. "Let's get out of here," he groans. "Before I entertain the crowd with a display of what I had for breakfast?"

Sam nods mechanically but he's thinking _we're not going anywhere_. The bump on the head has shaken something loose, taking it outside of Sam's expertise. Concussion he can handle, thinking Dad is alive is more complicated. Now he's hoping the siren in the distance _is_ an ambulance that someone has called for Dean, and he fully intends to wait for it to arrive.

* * *

Sam slouches in a white plastic chair beside Dean's hospital bed and looks around absently. The doctor has exercised caution in keeping Dean overnight, mildly concerned about the concussion. Sam is a little more concerned about the fact that his brother has _amnesia_ and six years of memories are gone.

He can't believe it. Can't believe that memories could just disappear, or get locked away inside, or whatever the hell happened.

Six years! Dean has taken a giant step back to late 2002. And Sam is trying to get his head around that, around where that puts his brother. Six years ago Sam was at Stanford (which explains why Dean was surprised to see him). Six years ago their father was alive. Six year ago Dean was hunting with _Dad_, and Sam has no idea what they got up to because he wasn't communicating with either of them at the time.

And there's all the stuff he's missing from the interim. Demons...Death... Deals...Angels..._An impending apocalypse_ for chrissake... Things have changed. A _lot _has happened. And Dean's suddenly skipped over it, skipped backward, and wiped it clean.

The doctor doesn't seem too concerned. Apparently amnesia isn't uncommon with a head injury and usually resolves itself in a few hours. Which is encouraging. Sam is holding onto that hope with a very firm grip. He can ride out a few hours.

But while the amnesia persists there's an awkwardness between them, because he and Dean are travelling on different wavelengths, interacting under different apprehensions, and Sam isn't sure how to handle that. Come clean about the things that Dean can't remember? Or be cagey, and wait for Dean to remember on his own?

It's an issue.

"You want anything?" Sam asks, breaking the heavy silence. "You want me to get you anything, like food, or coffee or something? There's a cafeteria down the hall."

Dean grimaces. He's been given something to quell the nausea but the thought of food isn't yet welcome. "Nah, I'm good."

Sam scrubs a hand over his face and tries to think of an innocuous conversation to start. There are a lot of topics he doesn't want to get near.

"So... Dean forces a chuckle. "This is pretty crazy, right? I feel like I'm working my way through an injury list. Broken bones? Check. Dislocations? Check. Amnesia? Cross that puppy off."

"Yeah." Sam tries to return the light heartedness but it really isn't that funny.

"Dad's going to think it's so lame." Dean smiles at the idea of their father's reaction. "I'll bet you ten bucks he accuses me of faking it."

_Bet you ten bucks he doesn't_, Sam thinks grimly and has to look away. "Yeah, maybe," he answers quietly.

There's a pause before Dean asks, "Did you call him, and explain why I couldn't meet him today?"

"You weren't supposed to meet him today," Sam reminds. Even though Dean knows he's missing six years, had it proved with two different newspapers, he's having trouble with the practicality of it, with accepting that his knowledge is outdated.

"Yeah, right, yeah...uh...but did you talk to him? Let him know where we are?"

Sam's mouth goes dry. He doesn't want to talk about their father, doesn't want to reveal that he died a number of years ago. It's one of the topics, the main topic, he doesn't know how to address. Be cagey? Or tell the truth?

He _really _doesn't want to drop _that_ bombshell, because, to an extent, he knows how it's going to go down. He's been through it once, his brother's quiet stoic grief masking suppressed rage, and he has no desire to see it played out again from the beginning.

He coughs nervously and says, "No, I haven't been able to reach Dad."

"But you left a message, right?"

Sigh. Grimace. Cringe. "Yeah Dean. I left a message."

Sam hates himself for the deception, but justifies it as a temporary measure. He can't see the point in putting Dean through the agony of fresh grief when in a few hours the dulled memory will return.

During the course of the day Dean dozes on and off and Sam is grateful for it because conversation is excruciating. He's made the decision to be cagey, about everything, and he thinks it's the right move, no point causing angst and trauma over things that are past, things that Dean will remember soon enough. But it makes conversation difficult, a bit of a mental challenge, trying not to let slip about topics he wants to avoid.

Conversation _could_ be a lot harder if Dean peppered him with questions, but he doesn't. Dean isn't asking too much, isn't delving too far, just taking what Sam offers and leaving it at that. Which Sam finds amazing. His brother must be as curious as hell about the last six years. But they're both skirting the edges, keeping it shallow and waiting for the memories to kick in.

And every time Dean sleeps Sam has this hope, that when he wakes up the memories will be restored. He doesn't know how it's supposed to work. All he knows about amnesia is what he's seen on tv, someone hits their head, suffers amnesia, hits their head again, miraculously cured. As the day wears on Sam wonders if that might actually work, hitting Dean over the head again. Because it kind of makes sense. If one knock to the head loosens a wire, it seems reasonable that a second knock to the head might fix it. But he's not going to try it. It seems just as plausible that a second knock to the head might jolt another wire loose and send Dean back to being a seven year old or something. Better to just wait it out, and hope that rest will cure it.

"Have you heard from Dad yet?"

It's early in the evening and the hesitation in Dean's voice makes Sam wince because he's hesitant for all the wrong reasons, thinking something along the lines of Dad's pissed off, or Dad's giving him the silent treatment, or Dad's expressing his disappointment by not calling and, _Christ,_ Sam really doesn't want to set him straight. But they are _way_ past 'a few hours', without any breakthrough in memory and Sam's starting to wonder just how long he's prepared to continue lying. He's struggling with the dishonesty. And he can tell that Dean is struggling with it too, finding the deflection and hedging increasingly unsatisfactory.

But he dreads telling the truth. The longer he puts it off the more dreaded it becomes.

He assures himself that the deception is only for a few more hours, that it's the right thing in the circumstances, and answers, "Nah man, I haven't heard from him."

But when the clock strikes midnight, over fourteen hours since the accident, Sam makes a decision. If Dean's memory hasn't returned when he next wakes up then caginess is out and honesty is in. His conscience demands it. He can't take the guilt any longer. No more secrets, no more lying, because if fourteen hours later Dean is still missing time, there's no telling when it might return, and he isn't going to lie indefinitely.

He resolves that from hereon he's going to be honest, however difficult and unpleasant that might be. Just thinking about it turns his hands clammy because he knows that means revealing the truth about their father first. And he doesn't want to do it. Of all the things he needs to catch his brother up on, that's going to be the hardest.

He stares at his sleeping brother, trying to figure out the right way to hit Dean with the worst news of his life. And he prays to God, seriously, because he _knows_ there is one, that he won't _have to_ break that news, that the next time Dean wakes up the memories will be restored, and they will all be saved the trauma. But he has to be prepared. And he goes through dozens of different speeches in his head, from the blunt to the long winded, none of which seem satisfactory.

Sam feels the bed shift beneath him, a gentle hand rest on his skull and realises he fell asleep, that his head is on the mattress near Dean's hip. He bristles at his brother's touch, a nervous reaction to Dean being awake. And already, without a word being said, the honesty resolve is wavering.

"Hey," Dean whispers.

"What?" Sam deliberately keep his head down.

"Just seeing if you were awake."

"Oh."

Dean doesn't have his memory back, he would have said so if he did and although Sam still wants to go down the path of honesty, he doesn't particularly want to do it _now,_ dazed with sleep and feeling a little slow. He doesn't move, hoping to give the impression that he's too tired for conversation.

"Have you heard from Dad yet?"

Sam's heart jumps painfully in his chest. _Seriously_, _first question_? He's not ready. He needs to work up to it. In all the scenarios he went through in his head _he_ was the one to start the conversation.

So he doesn't answer. Lays still pretending to have fallen back to sleep.

"Hey." Dean shakes his shoulder, not buying the act. "Did Dad call?"

"No," Sam mumbles, and for a second he considers leaving it there.

But he can't. He can't go on with the half truths and misinformation. He lifts his head to look at Dean, gearing up to say the terrible words and the innocent hope in his brother's face, the complete lack of anticipation closes Sam's throat, have his eyes filling with tears in raw sympathy. Dean's about to be blindsided.

"What is it?" Dean asks, unfailingly attuned to Sam's moods (even in this altered state, when he hasn't seen Sam in over a year).

Sam isn't composed enough to speak. He swallows a few times trying to clear his throat and watches his brother's expression change, his eyes widen, as he reads Sam's face and puts two and two together. And now Sam has no choice but to deliver the news.

"Dad died nearly three years ago," Sam says thickly. And he's surprised at how upset he feels, he thought he was over the grief. But telling Dean anew makes it seem like it only happened yesterday, it all feels kind of fresh.

Dean looks at him in disbelief. "He's... dead?"

Sam's focusses on the bedding, away from his brother's horrified expression. "I'm sorry Dean. I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner. I thought it would only be a couple of hours and you'd remember. I shouldn't have strung it out for so long. It just seemed like the thing to do..."

Dean tunes out. His eyes dart back and forth as he searches for the memories, trying to force them through. If he's going to remember _anything_ it would be _this_. But there's nothing. Just a frustrating blankness, and he has to ask, "How?"

Sam tries to give an abridged, sanitised version of their father's death. "Aneurysm. He was in the hospital, and the doctors tried to save him, but there was nothing they could do." It's _kind of_ the truth. At the time their Dad died it's what they believed.

But Dean isn't satisfied. He digs for information, wanting to know all the details, and in the end Sam reveals more than he really wants to, more than is necessary; the cabin, Dad being possessed, Dean nearly dying and the semi slamming into the car.

He stops short of revealing that their father sacrificed himself to save Dean. It's enough without that. There are degrees of honesty, and he figures he doesn't have to start at one hundred percent.

When the questions run out and silence descends Dean gets a thousand yard stare, tries to make sense of it, tries to process the news. Sam scrambles for something to say, something to ease the pain, something reassuring.

"It's okay," he says earnestly. "_We're_ okay. We can deal with this. We _have_ dealt with this."

It's confusing, what's done and what's still to come.

Dean shifts his head slightly, not enough to make eye contact and slides a hand across his mouth. "I should have known," he says, voice sandpapery and deep. "It makes sense." He shakes his head ruefully and gets distant again, entirely inward looking.

The silence is cloying and Sam feels an urgent need to get out, get some fresh air. Exit strategies run through his head. _I'll let you have some time to yourself. Let me go get you some water._ _You should rest, I'll come back later_. But he keeps his mouth determinedly shut.

"Did we...uh..." Dean flushes, swipes a thumb under his eye which may or may not head off a tear, Sam can't tell when his brother's head is ducked. "Did we get a chance to say goodbye? I mean, you know, were there any last words?"

Sam swallows. Hello can of worms. _Yeah there was something about me becoming the devil's minion, you may have to kill me..._

"It all happened pretty fast," he replies hesitantly, not wanting to reveal more but at the same time thinking_, I can't deny Dean his last moment with Dad_. "You did talk," he adds reluctantly. "Just before he died. But I was out getting coffee so I'm not sure what he said." _Oh troublesome honesty_.

Dean nods, sinks a little in relief that there was some final words, even if he has no idea what they were.

Sam sweeps a quick gaze in his direction, gauging without being obvious, and finds Dean looking pale and fragile, enough to spark concern, and he thinks maybe he should have consulted the doctor before hitting his brother with the news. He considers calling a nurse, gazes uncertainly for a moment at the call button, but decides it's not the physical symptoms that have him worried, it's the emotional. It's a rare thing to see Dean openly hopeless and lost, the absence of a false front is startling. And he doesn't think there's anything medicine can do for that.

"You alright?" he asks worriedly.

"Fantastic." A wan smile ghosts Dean's lips.

Right, yeah, stupid question.

"It's going to be okay," Sam offers. "This amnesia stuff is just temporary. Once you get your memory back you'll be fine, you can get back to being normal."

_Yeah, back to "I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing" and drinking to get through the day._ It occurs to Sam that his brother is screwed either way, with or without the memories.

Dean knits his eyebrows and looks a little insulted by the platitudes, but doesn't argue. After a moment he says quietly, "I was with Dad _yesterday_." He pauses, shifts a little in the bed, waiting for Sam to correct him and say _it wasn't yesterday_. But Sam doesn't say anything, not interested in scoring points. "We finished up this poltergeist thing in Colorado, which wasn't that hard, we joked about how easy it was and how we wished they were all like that." He eyes his left hand. "Although I think I broke my little finger." He bends the pinky up and down a few times, testing the movement. "Looks like it healed up pretty good." He drops the hand to his chest.

Sam doesn't mention the whole bodily rejuvenation thing that happened when Dean returned from hell. Dean's probably going to notice the lack of scars soon enough. It can wait.

"Dad stuck me with the cleaning and drove to Baton Rouge to get a head start on the next job," Dean continues. "I followed him down this morning and was supposed to meet up with him. I mean, I've got the name and address of the motel and everything." Dean shakes his head. "I saw him _yesterday_ Sam. And you're telling me he died, what, three years ago? That's really hard..." He shakes his head. "I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone."

There's not much Sam can say to that. "I'm sorry man. It's gotta be tough."

"I can't get my head around the idea that the stuff I think is current is six years old. Because it doesn't feel like it. I mean it's not hazy or anything, it's all pretty clear. I could tell you what I watched on tv last night. I could tell you what I had for breakfast yesterday. I could tell you what _Dad _had for breakfast yesterday. It's really confusing, being so certain and being wrong. Well not wrong exactly, because the stuff I remember did happen, just not in the timeframe I think it happened." His eyes dart toward Sam, and he sighs. "It's gonna take some time to adjust," he concludes softly.

"It's temporary Dean. Just give it a few days, tops, and your brain will sort itself out."

"Mmm." Dean doesn't sound convinced.

It's only a few hours later that the doctor advises Dean he can leave. The concussion is fine. The issue of the amnesia is skirted around until the end, when Sam directly questions him about it, and the doctor just shrugs his shoulders, says it's _one of those things,_ there's nothing he can do about it. The memories may yet return, there's no reason why they couldn't, but a time frame is impossible to predict. He suggests Dean try hypnosis, and washes his hands of the problem with a friendly smile.

So Dean leaves the hospital incomplete, with memories that end a year after Sam left for Stanford, and ventures out into a vastly changed world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sam is nervous as they walk out of the relative safety of the hospital and into the world at large. Society has changed in the last six years but he can't put his finger on exactly how, what it is that Dean is going to find an adjustment. He wants to say to his brother _we do it like this now, we have things like that now,_ give him a pre-emptive heads up, but his mind is awhirl with possibilities: _were there cell phones six years ago? Yeah, of course. What about laptops? Would he have seen one of those? Yeah, probably. Would he know about the war in Iraq? Maybe not. What about beer? Is there anything new in beer?_

Dean stops in amazement when he sees the Impala in the car-park. After hearing about the accident with the semi he assumed it had been totalled. But his delighted smile fades when he notices the different licence plate, a few unknown dents and he's not sure if it's the same car or a replica.

"Is this my car?" he asks.

Sam looks at him strangely, alarmed that he wouldn't recognise it. "Yes."

"I mean the same car from six years ago?"

"Yeah," Sam answers slowly, not getting the thrust.

"You know, because you told me about the semi? Slamming into it? And this car has a different licence plate? Did we just buy the same car again?"

"Oh right." Sam is flooded with relief. "No, it's the same car. We just changed the licence plate."

The car isn't particularly clean at the moment, still wearing the dust from their last long drive, but Dean runs his hand over the trunk and up over the roof, an appreciative smile on his face.

"You look pretty good," he purs quietly. "Sorry to hear you had a rough time."

Sam rolls his eyes and Dean almost catches it when he turns and asks, "So she wasn't that badly damaged in the accident?"

"Oh no, she was badly damaged. Bobby wanted to write her off."

"Bobby?" Dean's face sours. "Why'd he have a say?"

"Because that's where I took the car."

"You took my baby to Bobby? Why?"

Sam furrows his brow. "Where else was I going to take her? She was almost unsalvageable."

"I still wouldn't have taken her to Bobby," Dean grumbles, and Sam is at a loss to understand the negative sentiment. "Where did the semi hit? Front or back?"

"Passenger side. That whole side was buckled."

Dean moves to the passenger side and examines the body, slides his hand along the panels, drops to a crouch to check the alignment. "Looks like someone did a good job rebuilding her," he proclaims as he pushes to his feet. "Was it _Bobby_?"

The accusatory tone makes Sam defensive. "No," he says tersely. "It was you. You rebuilt her."

"Okay then." Dean wiggles his fingers. "Hand over the keys."

It's a bizarre exchange, and Sam has no idea what's at the heart of it. Some kind of problem Dean has with Bobby, but based on what?

He remembers, way back, to the time they took Meg to the salvage yard, and something was mentioned about Dad being chased off the property with a shotgun, or something like that. It didn't sound like a big deal when it came up, it was joked about, but he wonders if that's what's coloring Dean's opinion, if it was more acrimonious than was let on. Or if the attitude is based on something else entirely. He'll have to ask Bobby when they next speak.

They sit in the car for a moment and it's on the edge of Sam's tongue to say _let me drive_, because it doesn't seem like a great idea for the amnesiac, concussed one to be driving. He rounds on Dean to make the suggestion, but his brother looks troubled, stares at the steering wheel like it's going to reveal some answers, and Sam can't help but ask, "What?"

"Are we...?" Dean says awkwardly, and clicks his tongue looking for the right words. "Do I need to drop you somewhere? I mean, are you with someone or... something? How are we...?" He gestures between them, trying to convey something about closeness, and there's a crimson tinge to his face, deeply uncomfortable about asking a semi-personal question, and embarrassed that he doesn't know the first thing about their current relationship.

"We're staying at the same place," Sam says with a smile. "We're sharing a motel room."

Dean lets out a pent up breath. "Okay," he nods, looking relieved, and starts the car.

Sam directs his brother to their latest low priced accommodation and Dean glides the car to a halt outside the room. They both quickly exit and Sam strides for the door, then stops and looks around when he realises Dean isn't following. He spies his brother behind the Impala, the top of his head visible above the raised trunk lid, and changes direction to join him.

When Sam draws beside him, Dean drawls, "Just enjoying the gun show." His eyes sweep over the interior of the secret compartment, taking in the stash of weapons, and he says with delight, "Hey, new guns," as he pulls out a sawed- off that's a couple years old, feels the weight and examines it from a number of different angles. "I look forward to using you my pretty," he murmurs, and returns the gun to its space.

Sam can't help but smile at the upside of amnesia, that everything old is new again. As Dean paws the arsenal, Sam points out, "Some of those are mine."

Dean looks at him uncertainly, like maybe he's kidding. "Really?"

Sam nods.

"Like...things you might actually use?"

"Yep."

"That's...unexpected." Dean stares thoughtfully at the gun he's currently holding, then replaces it in the arrangement and frowns at the display. "So...you're doing _this_ now? Hunting?"

"Yeah man, I told you I was with you when that demon possessed Dad."

"Yeah, but that was three years ago. I thought it was just one of those wrong place, wrong time sort of things. I didn't think you were actually hunting. Because...you know..." his finger circles the air, "you left. You didn't want that."

The flat way in which Dean says the words hint at a bitterness that hasn't quite been overcome. _Remember? You left us? _It reminds Sam that it's quite fresh to his brother, leaving for college, to him it's only a year ago.

"I know," Sam says, ceding the point without argument. "Things changed."

They regard each other for a moment, and there's a feeling that they are on the edge of a discussion that could be deep and revealing, all it needs if for Dean to say _what changed?_

But he doesn't.

He slams the trunk, pats Sam on the shoulder and says flippantly, "Good to have you back in the family business," then strolls to the motel door.

Sam sniffs and shakes his head.

They spend most of the day watching sports on tv. They talk about what's been happening in football, what's been happening in basketball, what's been happening in any sport that comes on the screen. It all taxes Sam's knowledge. He's interested in sports but he never took the same notice as Dean, didn't watch quite as much. He could hold his own in a conversation but he's doesn't know enough to lecture in it, which is what it feels like he's doing. It's strange, disconcerting, that his brother is actually listening to him, believing most of his half assed information. But not all of it, there's a fair amount of teasing and calling bullshit from Dean, and that part makes everything seem normal, like nothing's happened.

There is some talk about hunting, Dean throws out comments about it every so often, and Sam sidesteps it as unobtrusively as he can. He doesn't want to give his brother any ideas about jumping right back in, go looking for a hunt. And he doesn't want it to occur to his brother that they may be in this town for a reason. Because they are. They came to chase a demon. That Ruby tipped them off to. He's not ready to try and explain that. Or continue that hunt.

Sam isn't sure that Dean has ever brushed with a demon in this amnesiac state. Which is a wild thought. Dean has been to _hell_, encountered demons on their own turf, and this guy knows nothing about it. When he trawls through his memory he realises that Dean knew something about demons when they were on that Oceanic flight. He knew about holy water, he knew about _christo_, and he knew they had to be exorcised. But he's lost a lot of experience and knowledge, so for the moment hunting is out. Hunting demons in particular is out.

He's not going to think about what they'll do if the memories don't return because _honestly_, he thinks they will, he really does. There's no reason for them _not_ to return. It's all in Dean's brain somewhere, it's not like the memories fell out. Sam imagines an enormous hall of records in his brother's head, with draw upon draw of memories, the last six years misfiled somewhere. Dean just has to keep opening draws until he comes across what's missing. He hasn't used that analogy with Dean. And he's not going to either. Hall of records? Christ, he'd never hear the end of it. But that's what he's thinking. There's no point overloading Dean with six years of catching up when he's going to open the right draw soon enough.

So he doesn't try and bring conversation around to matters concerning the last six years. He doesn't want to foist information on his brother, force him to learn about the traumas of the past, when the memories are going to return naturally. He'll tell Dean things that are immediately relevant, he'll offer Dean information as it arises, he'll answer Dean's questions honestly, but the rest can wait for a natural solution. And just quietly he thinks maybe a few days without all the information isn't such a bad thing. His brother could use a break from the guilt and recrimination. So he's just going to wait it out, lay low for a while, until the situation sorts itself out.

Every so often Sam stares at his brother and wonders what he must be thinking, about them being together, hunting together. It's so different from _yesterday_ for him, there's so much he doesn't know, so much he must be curious about. Positions reversed, Sam would be asking, man, he'd be going nuts with questions. But Dean...he seems to be waiting for it, waiting for the information to come, for things to be revealed. It's like he doesn't want to know too much too quickly. Sam can't figure out if he's playing it cool or scared to find out.

In the afternoon Dean is restless, pacing, wanting to go out and find a bar. Physically Dean is fine, if he's nursing a headache he's keeping it to himself. And Sam can't blame his brother for wanting to lose himself for a while. Dean hasn't said one word about their father since leaving the hospital, he's been stoic and collected about the whole amnesia situation, but emotion must be weighing him down, and alcohol has always been Dean's method of coping.

They walk to a place at the end of the block. It's run down and tired, stuck somewhere in the eighties, heavily trod carpet, fading color on the wall, the kind of place only alcoholics and hardcore locals would visit. Or out-of-towners who don't know better. There are only a few older guys in the place (alcoholics and hard core locals?) and they're quiet, concentrating on drinking, letting the tv in the background provide ambience.

The brothers order a beer at the bar and take it to a table, nowhere near anyone, hard against a wall. Sam has the feeling they're being watched. Which is probably a good bet, they fairly stand out. It makes him mildly anxious. They're out in public, where anything could happen, and he's not sure how Dean would handle himself if something went down. Which is crazy. Dean missing six years is still Dean, the toughest guy he knows. But he feels like his brother is underprepared, lacking experience, he feels_ protective,_ and immediately recognises the role reversal. He's viewing his brother the way Dean usually views him. It's an aspect of being the youngest that always frustrated him, the assumption that he was less capable, that living less years meant he had to be protected, but all of a sudden he _gets it_. He's thinking of all the things they've encountered in the last four years that Dean has no idea about, that he would be totally unprepared for, and feels a responsibility to look out for his brother, to keep him safe.

He and Dean exchange caustic appraisals of the place and the clientele, in low, joking voices, and it keeps them going for a while, before conversation stalls. They sip their beer self-consciously and travel their gazes around the establishment looking for a new conversation starter.

"Okay Sam," Dean says abruptly, then stalls on the words, and darts an uncertain look at his brother from under his lashes that immediately has Sam interested. "Okay. Tell me something I don't know. Tell me something I could never guess."

Sam gives a short laugh. "Dude, you currently know jack-shit. That's not exactly a challenge."

Dean flinches at the jibe, eyebrows twitch at the bluntness. Sam hadn't expected him to take it personally. He has to remember that this guy is different. This guy hasn't seen him in over a year. This guy last knew him as a petulant eighteen year old walking out the door. This guy hasn't re-bonded with him over four years of hunting and personal trauma.

Dean shakes off the offense and persists, "Dazzle me. Tell me something that will blow my mind."

Sam considers for a moment. Thinks about whether he wants to play this game.

"Okay," he decides, mouth quirking in amusement, and thoughts flick through his brain like they're being shuffled by a machine, fast and furious, dozens of them, dozens of things Dean doesn't know. He discards them all just as quickly, trying to find a snippet that isn't too heavy, isn't too dull, isn't too obscure, isn't too personal, they're all falling short for one reason or another.

After a few minutes of silence Dean says impatiently, "Jesus Sam, I thought it wasn't a challenge. You're not being graded on it."

"Yeah, okay," Sam soothes, and says the next thing that pops into his brain. "Dad kept a storage unit outside of Buffalo filled with things from our childhood. And some other stuff."

"What?" Dean is suitably stunned, eyebrows flirt with his hairline. "What kind of things?"

"You know, like birthday cards, report cards, drawings, trophies, that kind of thing."

Dean's adams apple bobs up and down, his eyes mist over as he takes a hasty swig of beer, and Sam winces at his insensitivity. His brother only just found out that their father is dead, and now his grief is compounded by the revelation that Dad was secretly a sentimentalist. He _sucks _at interacting with his brother in this state. He's really having trouble lining up the goal posts.

"Shit, Dean, I'm sorry," he says awkwardly. "That was a stupid thing to tell you."

"No, dude," Dean shakes his head, forces a smile, "that was a great thing to tell me. I had no idea he kept that sort of stuff, I thought he just ditched it every time we moved. That's..." he clears his throat. "That's really interesting. Consider me dazzled." He takes a long swallow of beer to regain his composure. "So what did you do with it all, after he...?"

"It's still there," Sam interjects quickly. "We just left it all in the unit. Man, you should have seen the way he booby trapped the place. There were guns rigged at the entry, with a tripwire to set it off."

Dean chuckles. "That sounds like Dad. But what the hell for? Scared of someone stealing the report cards?"

"He kept _land mines_ in there," Sam exclaims. "He kept all sorts of dangerous shit in there. He had finger paintings next to doomsday weapons. It was insane."

Dean laughs in genuine amusement, fond look in his eye. "Sounds awesome. You've got to take me there."

Sam smiles. "Yeah, sure, we'll check it out."

And he almost suggests that they do it right now. He would love to go on some impulsive road trip, it sounds so much better than anything else they could be doing in the next few days, hunting something supernatural or dealing with something apocalyptic or wallowing in how unfair life treats them. They should put it all in the rear-view and do something for themselves.

But realism quickly hits. When have they ever been able to _put things in the rear-view?_ Stuff just follows them around.

It's barely dark when they stroll back to the motel. They're tired, suffering from the sleep deprivation of the past twenty four hours, keen for any early night. Neither of them is drunk, but the alcohol has left an agreeable impression.

Sam keys open the door, takes a step inside and freezes when he sees the figure in the room. His senses return when he hears the snick of a safety between flicked off. His brother has pulled out a gun with lightening reflexes and is taking aim at the intruder.

"Dean, no," Sam exclaims and throws out a hand, pushing the gun down, in case Dean fires a shot without waiting for explanations.

"Sam, what the hell?"

"You can't shoot this guy. We know him."

And then he's at a loss, because it's Castiel, and Sam doesn't know how to explain that there's an angel in their room.

Dean lowers the weapon, but keeps it in his hand, doesn't return it to his waistband, and glares at the man in the trench-coat. "Who is he? A hunter?"

"I am Castiel. An angel of the Lord," Castiel says evenly, and doesn't seem surprised that he has to reintroduce himself, Sam figures he knows Dean has amnesia_._

Dean immediately swings the gun up and once again targets the angel.

Sam shakes his head with a sigh and doesn't mess with the aim this time, because if Castiel gets shot, he brought it on himself by barrelling in with the truth.

"Sam?" Dean says, taut and uncertain. "Who is this whackjob?"

"He's..." Sam tries to think of an explanation, something easy and believable, but Castiel has already revealed he's an angel and Sam isn't now going to introduce a lie. "...an angel," he utters resignedly. "He's an angel Dean."

Dean stares hard at his brother for a few heartbeats, then takes Sam by surprise when he suddenly grabs his shirt front and hauls him toward the door.

"Dean...? What are you doing?" Sam protests, stumbling as Dean pushes him backward. His brother is tight lipped. They pass over the threshold and Dean lets go of Sam to pull the door shut behind them.

In a low, dangerous tone, Dean demands, "Who is that guy?" Like maybe Sam's making fun of him, maybe Sam _and_ that guy inside are making fun of him.

Sam opens his mouth to speak and Dean interrupts, "Do not tell me he is an angel because there is no such thing."

Sam closes his mouth, shrugs with upturned palms. After a brief pause he says, "I don't know what I can say. Castiel _is_ an angel."

Dean brings a hand up to run through his hair and is surprised by the glint of metal, still holding the gun. He waistbands the weapon then drags fingers across his cheeks. "Sam..." there's dismay in Dean's expression. "Sam, he's not an angel. Whatever that guy told you, he's not that."

Sam finds it incredible. His brother is _clueless_, got a huge chunk of memory missing, but still presumes to know better. "I think I know a little more about what's going on at the moment than you do," he snaps. Dean's posture straightens, gets defensive. In a less aggressive tone Sam adds, "I mean, we have a history with this guy. We know him quite well. Even you were convinced that he's an angel."

Dean narrows his eyes and shifts his gaze away, looking deeply uncertain. Sam just _knows_ he's thinking _I wish Dad were here_. After a concentrated minute he throws up his hands and says helplessly, "I don't know Sam. Angels? That's getting a bit out there. You can't really expect me to believe that."

"I know," Sam says tiredly. And he does know, it took weeks to convince Dean that Castiel was an angel the first time around and he has even less reason to believe it now, he's seen less, he knows less. "But listen, it doesn't matter who that guy is, I'm _telling_ you, he's someone we can trust. You're going to have to put some faith in me. Until you know everything, you're going to have to let me lead you. I'm not going to steer you wrong."

"Christ Sam," Dean mutters, shaking his head as if Sam might be asking too much. His shoulders slump in unhappy defeat. "Yeah, alright. I guess I don't have a choice at this point."

Sam puts a hand at his brother's back, opens the door and steers them back into the room, where Castiel remains as they left him. He watches as the brothers re-enter, betraying no restlessness or offence, and Sam finds the impassive expression irritatingly unreadable.

"So what is it you want?" Dean demands of the angel.

"We need your help."

Dean dips his head in surprise. "Really? _Angels_ need our help. We must truly be awesome if word of our greatness has reached upstairs."

Castiel ignores the derision and continues, "We need you to prevent the persecution of the righteous."

"The persecution of the righteous?" Dean repeats, brows high. "How about ending world hunger? Would you like us to do that as well?"

"That is not within your power," Castiel returns.

"Well I'm glad you're realistic."

Sam finds it interesting that even though Castiel apparently knows Dean has amnesia he still addresses him singularly, doesn't look once at Sam. It gives Sam an inkling of how much the angels dislike him, that they would rather deal with the clueless, condescending guy than him.

"Priests will be killed. Here in this town," Castiel says earnestly. "We have heard tell of the plan. Priests will be killed by one of their own and you must prevent it, or another seal will be broken."

"You break seals?" Dean exclaims, confused, and Sam chokes on a laugh because he knows Dean is thinking of the animal.

"Not us," Castiel says patiently. "We seek to protect the seals."

Dean turns agitatedly to his brother. "How did seals get involved? What the hell is he talking about?"

"He means seals like a lock," Sam replies, fighting a smile. "A lock on hell."

"Well why didn't he say that?" Dean says, aggrieved. "Does he always speak like a half-wit?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Sam admits.

"So why do we listen?"

"Because he's an angel Dean."

Dean presses his lips together, not about to enter into _that_ argument again.

"Listen," Sam addresses Castiel, "you know we want to help. I mean, we owe you guys. But right now..." his eyes flick to Dean. "I don't know if we can do it right now."

"Why not?" Dean challenges, eyes flashing. "Why not now?"

Sam clicks his tongue in annoyance. Dean wants to take on a job 24 hours into amnesia? That would be stupid, reckless. He keeps an even tone as he points out, "Dean, there's a lot of stuff you don't know. You can't just dive into a job when you don't know all the facts. Castiel is talking about fighting _demons_. You don't know anything about fighting demons."

Dean frowns, incensed. "I know a lot about fighting demons. And this guy needs our help." He jabs a thumb at Castiel.

"You think this guy is a whackjob," Sam points out.

"Yeah but _you_ don't. You think he's an angel. Are you really going to deny an _angel_ Sam?" Dean is frustrating Sam with logic he doesn't even _believe. _

Sam casts beseeching eyes at Castiel.

"We wouldn't have asked if we didn't think he was capable," Castiel offers, and that makes it two against Sam.

"There you go," Dean crows. "The angels think I'm capable."

Sam glowers at his brother, irritated by the competitiveness. "You have no idea what you're agreeing to. It's a whole new world and you are _way_ out of your depth. There is _so much_ you don't know. Let's just take some time and get you up to speed before we start hunting, or you're going to get killed."

Dean's triumphant expression fades and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. He doesn't want to back down, doesn't want to forfeit the victory, but sense is prevailing. His eyes skitter from his brother to the angel and he asks sheepishly, "Can we get back to you? We might need to talk about this."

"There is no-one else to call upon," Castiel returns calmly. "If you do not help us the seal will be broken."

"Again with the seals," Dean mutters, turning to Sam. "Sounds like we don't have a choice."

"Sounds like," Sam cedes through gritted teeth, and throws a little hate Castiel's way for putting him in an untenable position.

"Okay dude, I guess we're in," Dean proclaims, and smacks his hands together enthusiastically, making Sam cringe because he has no idea what he's in for. "Uh...I don't suppose there's any payola in it for us?"

"Dean!" Sam exclaims, mortified.

"What? You've gotta at least ask the question. Motel rooms don't grow on trees." He throws his arms wide, like it's just common sense.

"Your reward will be a speedy entrance into heaven," Castiel offers seriously, and only Sam gets the significance, that if anything should happen Dean's not going downstairs again.

"Awesome," Dean returns sarcastically. "I'll take that to the bank. Just, try not to enter me into heaven too soon. I've got some making up to do."

"Time is relative," the angel responds mildly, and Dean shoots his brother an uneasy glance, wondering if it's some kind of threat_._ Sam thinks of four months equating to forty years, of angels last visiting the earth two thousand years ago, and kind of understands the comment, but it's easier to just shrug at it.

Castiel moves toward the door and Dean holds up his hands, steps in front of him and says, "Whoa, whoa, wait. That's it? Isn't there more you need to tell us?"

"Like what?"

"Like which priest is going to be killed. And by who? I mean I would have thought you guys had _all_ the details?"

Castiel looks at him blankly. "No. We simply heard tell of the plan. We don't know more than that."

Dean's huffs on some air, a sound of amused disbelief, and cocks his head at Sam. "Seriously? You think this guy is an angel?"

"I know what he is Dean," Sam replies flatly.

As Castiel exits, through the door like a normal person, which Sam thinks must be for Dean's benefit, Sam suddenly has a thought and slips after him, closing the door on Dean. The angel regards him with surprise.

"Can you restore Dean's memories?" Sam asks in a low voice. And where previously he was of the opinion that Dean might be better off without those memories, if they're going to be fighting demons then his brother's going to need them.

The angel stiffens and says hesitantly, "I ...could..."

"But..."

"But I've been instructed not to."

Sam gapes. "Instructed? Why?"

"You know why Sam. You saw him. Hell was too great a burden for him."

"So give him back everything but that."

"I cannot. It is impossible to be exact. As you can see." He lowers his eyes and Sam puzzles over the comment for a moment, then draws in a breath.

"_You_ did this to him?"

"It was not _me_," Castiel says deliberately, but Sam doesn't care for the distinction, if it was his _team_ that did it, he's guilty by association.

"It was not you...what?" Sam presses, horrified. "Are you telling me one of your guys _pushed_ Dean in front of a car?"

"No. We did not _cause_ the accident," the angel clarifies. "We took advantage of the opportunity that presented and relieved Dean of what troubled him."

It's somewhat mollifying to know that Dean wasn't the victim of some sticky angel hands, but still, Sam is _stunned_ that heaven would go to such lengths. Yeah Dean was drowning in despair, his reliance on alcohol was becoming more and more pronounced, he was struggling hard with the recollection of hell, and running into Alistair had only made it worse. But wiping his memory? That's... extreme. It seems a little underhanded, a little manipulative, for the _good_ guys.

And suddenly he feels like an idiot, thinking Dean's unusually prolonged amnesia was a misfortune of nature, expecting the memories to return. It's not going to happen. Dean's not going to find those missing memories, they're being deliberately hidden from him.

"Did you have to take so much?" Sam protests, and can feel his outrage building.

"It is impossible to be exact," the angel repeats, and shakes his head. "My counsel on the matter was not sought. I am of the view that in time Dean's anguish would have diminished. But I have to trust in those who made the decision. They were of the opinion that the weight of hell pressed too heavily on Dean. They feared for his sanity."

Sam thinks that's probably as close to dissent as Castiel can get without repercussion but it provides little comfort.

"But he's lost all his experience with demons," Sam argues heatedly, his voice a harsh whisper to prevent it from carrying. And he knows he's preaching to the wrong choir, Castiel has already indicated his disapproval, but he can't restrain his fury. "I thought that was the whole point of saving him, that he'd been to hell, that he knew the enemy more intimately than anybody, that he knew how to fight them. I just..." Sam runs an agitated hand through his hair. "He doesn't know _anything_ now. He's gonna get killed."

Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. "You can teach him what he needs to know. And I will try and stay close. But this is bigger than the two of you, Sam. It's the apocalypse. Everybody needs to pull their weight. And Dean is resourceful, what he lacks in experience he'll make up for in instinct."

Sam thinks bitterly _don't try and sell my brother to me_. He takes a step back, out of the angel's grasp, doesn't try and hide the hostility in his face. And his bitterness deepens at the audacity of a group who would remove from a man all his knowledge of the enemy then demand that he go out and fight. Unfuckingbelievable.

Castiel tips his head down. "He wasn't just saved for his experiences Sam," he says sternly. "He was saved for who he is. Taking away memories doesn't change that. You would do well not to underestimate your brother."

Sam snorts indignantly, turns his gaze absently to the door and thinks about his brother inside, but thinks not about the missing six years, but about the twenty four years that came before. Hard fought years. Hard lived years. Dean may have gained knowledge in the period he's missing, but training and character came well before.

But he doesn't want to make any concessions to the angel. What has been wrought still oversteps acceptable bounds. He shakes his head and turns, ready with a cutting remark, and finds himself alone. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, thinking _what am I supposed to do now?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It's a whole new ball game.

What Sam thought was going on, isn't, and it changes everything. Now he can't sit back and wait for Dean's memory to return. Now he has to _tell _his brother what he's missing, and he's kind of been avoiding that, it's such a fraught task.

He needs time to think about it. He's needs time to formulate a way to relate the information while minimising the impact. There are things he flat out doesn't want to reveal yet, bombshells waiting in the wings, and he needs to figure out how to recap the past without mentioning Dad's deal, demon granted powers, his death, Dean's deal, Dean in hell...it's a long list of avoidances, of things that could spark an unpredictable reaction, or worse set his brother back on the path to despondency and remorse that got them here in the first place. He may be furious at heaven for the manipulation, but he can't deny the opportunity that's been created. Dean has a chance to move forward in life without the heavy burdens of the past, and he's not going to screw it up by being reckless or careless about what comes out of his mouth, he has to think very carefully about what he tells and how he tells it.

He pushes open the door and steps back inside, responsibility like too much weight on his shoulders. He pulls up short when he finds Dean just inside the entry, arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowed and cold.

"Enjoy your little pow-wow?" he asks in a flat tone.

He's livid. About being excluded. And Sam just doesn't have the energy to deal with it right now.

"No," he replies.

"What were you saying about me?"

Sam sniffs at the presumption and really wishes he could say _it's not always about you Dean_. But it was about him, and he's not going to pretend it wasn't, Dean wouldn't buy it anyway. He considers making something up, some innocent conversation with Castiel, but Dean is just sneaky enough to have been listening at the door, so he might as well be honest.

"I was asking Castiel if he could return your memory."

Dean arches an eyebrow. "Oh really. You didn't think I might like to be involved in that conversation?"

Sam tamps down his irritation, gently closes the door, turns toward Dean and folds his arms tightly over his ribs, dropping his gaze defiantly.

When he doesn't respond Dean dips his chin to his chest and asks less antagonistically, "So? What did he say?"

Sam's eyes drift up at the more moderate tone. "He said...he can't."

Dean snorts. "You know why he can't?"

"Don't say it..."

"Because he's not an angel."

"Don't _tell me_ what he is." Sam's anger bubbles over. "I could write a book about the things you don't currently know. You are in no position to be telling me anything."

Dean straightens, offended. "Yeah, right, I don't know anything. I'm just the idiot who refuses to believe in angels and unicorns."

Under his breath Sam says, "Nobody said anything about unicorns."

Dean ignores the aside. "So why don't you convince me. Convince me that guy is an angel. And I tell you what, I'll even give you a head start. I'll suspend disbelief that such creatures exist. Tralala, angels are real. There you go, first hurdle overcome. Now convince me that _that guy_ is one of them. Because I tell you what, maybe there's something wrong with my eyes, but I didn't see the light. I didn't see anything remotely God-like about him. Just some dude, who's a little..." he twirls a finger beside his temple. "...off. And maybe quirky passes for angelic these days but I'm going to need more than that to be convinced."

Sam presses his lips together. He hasn't had a chance to think it through yet, get his approach in order. What's he supposed to say? _You were in hell. You sold your soul for my life. I couldn't get you back and I tried man, I tried. But then Castiel came down and... _

No. He can't just blurt it all out. He can't start at the end and work his way back, he needs to come at it methodically.

He pushes his hair back from his face, combs his fingers through a few times in a stall for time, and then walks past his brother, who raises an eyebrow, to the mini-fridge and takes out two beers. He walks back to Dean, hands over a bottle and says, "Alright, get comfortable."

There is a small table in the room, a square breakfast table of chipped and scratched pine, with a chair either side. Sam motions in the direction and Dean crosses to it with his head down, looking serious, grimly prepared to hear whatever it is Sam's about to tell him.

Sam falls into step behind and slumps into the chair across from Dean. They arrange themselves in the same manner, facing into the room, legs stretched out in front, forearms on the table running a line to the beer in their hand. Mirrored but parallel.

Sam studies the label on the beer, and almost looks like he's reading when he begins, "About eighteen months ago a devil's gate opened, a doorway that links topside and hell, and hundreds of demons escaped."

He settles on that for a moment, puts the bottle to his lips, figures it's bombshell enough to inspire some questions.

"A doorway to hell," Dean echoes, not exactly a question, and not disbelieving, just chewing on the idea out loud. "Why is there a doorway to hell?"

"Dude." Sam lifts one shoulder. "Why does any of this stuff exist?"

Dean bounces his head up and down a few times and accepts that as answer enough. "This devil's gate... It's somewhere..." He shakes his head in bewilderment, "Where would you find a Devil's Gate?"

"Wyoming."

Dean's brows angle severely. "Wyoming? Wyoming is the doorway to hell?" At Sam's confirming nod his features shift into mild disbelief, then amusement. "You know I always suspected...," he says, with a slight pull at his lips. The smile fades as he considers further. "So there's like, what, a trapdoor or something? What does a Devil's Gate look like?"

"It was like a really big door. It was in a cemetery and it looked like the doors to an enormous mausoleum."

Dean nods, keeping pace. "How did it open?"

Sam pauses at that, he could give a lot of information or he could give a little, his head wobbles side to side as he considers how much. "It's complex. A demon named Azazel..."

"They have names," Dean comments. "How sociable."

"Yeah. Azazel convinced this kid named Jake to open the gate. He gave him a key and we weren't able to prevent it. We did manage to shut it, but not before a lot of demons escaped. A _lot._"

_And Dad. Dad clawed his way out._ He keeps that to himself.

Dean shakes his head ruefully, lets out a long exhale, then pronounces, "Okay. I'm with you so far. There was a demon mardi gras. What happened next."

Sam finds it kind of lamentable that his brother is so easily accepting. Tell him an outrageous story about hundreds of demons escaping through a door from hell and he has no problem getting on board. But tell him there's an angel in the room and you're insulting his intelligence. He can believe in the bad, but has trouble with the good and Sam can't help but wonder whether their father should have given them a more balanced view of the world.

Sam continues, "There's one demon in particular, Lilith, who's determined to bring about the end of humanity." He keeps his tone neutral, doesn't want to hint at the depth of feeling he has for this particular demon. "She's sparked off a chain of events that will lead to Lucifer himself rising from Hell. It all has to do with these seals that Castiel was talking about, each seal is like a lock on hell, and if the demons manage to break sixty six of them, Lucifer walks free."

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitches, talk of Lucifer pushing the bounds. He takes a long swallow of beer and asks, "How many have been broken?"

"About half."

"Fuck," Dean drawls, head tipping back slightly in a way that seems both impressed and appalled. "Lucifer huh." He shoots a sideways glance. "You believe it?"

Sam nods slowly. He's got no definitive proof, but the demons are going to a lot of trouble with the seals, there must be a payday at the end. "Yeah, I believe it."

Dean doesn't argue, but is pensive about it, not entirely embracing, and jibes, "Bit of a step up from your friendly neighbourhood werewolves and spirits."

Sam huffs a laugh. "No kidding."

They sit in grim silence for a moment, before Dean prompts, "Okay, so Hell is threatening. That's not exactly new, they've been trying to get their foot in humanity's door for a pretty long time, just sounds like they're a little more organised about it now. I can buy that. But you were supposed to be telling me a story about Columbo."

"Castiel," Sam corrects, although he suspects the mistake was deliberate. Thoughts shuffle quickly through his head, _how to address this? _

"Well it just kind of follows on from there," he answers, shifting in the chair, stretching his back, trying to relieve a discomfort that's more than physical. "Heaven got concerned about what was going on down here and sent some of their guys to try and nip things in the bud."

Sam congratulates himself on the neat sidestep. No talk of hell stricken brothers or angels swooping down. Simple and general.

"Yeah, see _that_," Dean points at his brother with a tilt of his beer, "that's where you lose me. Heaven Sam? It's a little naive."

"It's yin and yang Dean. You can't have hell without heaven. You can't have one without the other."

"Why not? See I think you can. Otherwise it doesn't make sense. I mean, if there's a heaven, if there are good guys up there, where have they been? Through war and famine and disaster, where have they been?"

"I know man," Sam says with a sigh, and feels déjà vu-ish because Dean argued something similar the first time around. "I know it's hard to believe. But heaven is kind of a hands off operation. They've been watching and despairing for thousands of years but it wasn't until the end of humanity threatened that they decided to get involved."

"Why? What is their purpose if not to get involved?"

Sam shrugs mildly. "They're not fluffy do-gooders Dean. They're not the type to swoop down and save the day. They're different from what I expected, kind of hard and unsympathetic. They want to save humanity, but they don't really like humans." Sam scrubs at the back of his neck, unhappy with that description, and revises, "No it's not that they don't like humans, it's more that they're disappointed by them."

He really doesn't know how to describe the angels, all he's seen is their contempt and dislike. He's not sure if describing them in such an uncomplimentary way makes them more or less believable to Dean.

"They're hard to figure out," he concludes.

"How do you know they are what they say they are? What makes you believe?"

Sam focusses on the beer in his hand, feels a squeeze in his chest and knows that if he looks at Dean his eyes are bound to reveal something, about his brother dying bloody on a floor and surfacing unexpectedly four months later.

"We've seen some things," he says simply, no betrayal in his voice. "They've done some things. And you exhausted every avenue trying to come up with an alternative explanation."

Dean's stares absently into the distance and Sam can tell he's trying to convince himself it's true, that angels exist, but it's working against such long held beliefs. After a brief pause there's a small shake of the head and Dean apparently decides to _just go with it_ for the moment.

"So they appeared to us one day?" Dean queries, a slight mock in his tone. "How did _we_ get involved?"

_Sidestep. Sidestep_. "They asked for our help. We know how to fight demons and the angels are outnumbered. "

"How many other hunters have they co-opted?"

Sam gazes at his brother in surprise. Co-opted? He's kinda surprised to hear that word come out of his brother's mouth, takes him a second to shake it off. "Uh, I don't know. The angels haven't said." He's thinking none, that they're the only hunters who've been enlisted, but he doesn't know that for sure.

"How long we been working with them?"

"About six months," Sam says lightly, the vagueness sounding so false to him because he knows exactly how long it's been, exactly when they first encountered the angels.

"And we've been saving these seals?"

"We've been trying to. But you know, demons man, they're not easily dissuaded. It's a tough gig." _And we haven't saved any._

Sam's starting to cringe at how misleading the answers are getting, how many of Dean's assumptions he isn't correcting. Dean must think they've been holding angel hands and saving the world, when in reality they've been acting _against_ the angels more often than not.

They remain in silence for a while, and Sam relaxes by degrees when it appears the Q & A is over. He assesses his performance and figures he did okay considering it was off the cuff. He's given Dean some context, relayed some missing information in a passive kind of way, and kept the deception to a minimum.

Dean drains the last of his beer and concentrates fixedly on the bottle, thumbing at the label, trying to remove it in one piece. When the paper rips he places the bottle on the table, and says, "I'm gonna hit the sack."

"Yeah, okay."

Sam flashes a commiserating smile. He can appreciate how hard being dumped in a new reality must be, having to accept facts and ideas on faith, without any real proof. Dean hasn't said he believes any of what he's been told, but he hasn't said he doesn't either, and really, it's the best Sam could hope for.

Dean pushes up from the chair, weariness making him a little slow. He pads about the room making preparations for bed, throws back the covers and is about to slip in when he notices Sam has the laptop open in front of him, perched on the table with barely enough space for elbows either side.

"What are you doing?"

Sam flicks his eyes to Dean and back to the screen. "Just researching the seal Castiel wants us to protect, see what it's all about."

"Oh," Dean says awkwardly, gaze flicking between Sam and the bed. "I didn't realise you were staying up. Uh..."

"No that's cool," Sam says quickly. "I won't be long. And it isn't a two man job. You get some sleep."

"Uh...no," Dean gives the bed a lingering look, then moves across to the table and stands behind his brother to peer at the screen. "What have you found?"

Sam bristles at Dean looking over his shoulder. It sort of feels like an unwanted metaphor for their relationship, like Dean's _always_ looking over his shoulder, and he hates the inference of incompetence, the lack of trust or lack of faith that motivates his brother's need to be involved, to see what he's doing.

"Listen, we have some books in the car about apocalyptic signs that I was going to get to later. You want to take a look?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, surprised by the suggestion, and Sam isn't sure if it's because he's being asked to do research or because they have books in the car. "Okay. Set me up with those."

Sam figures that will get his brother out from behind him, and with any luck send him to sleep because he's not sure how useful Dean can be researching things he only has a limited knowledge of. He retrieves the books, and Dean really has no alternative but to lay in bed to read them, the laptop doesn't leave any space for him at the table.

It's not even half an hour before Sam notices his brother's eyes are closed, open book lying at his side. He's propped up with pillows against the headboard, and his head lolls in a way that doesn't look comfortable. When a few hours later Dean starts shifting in the bed Sam presses two fingers into his eyes and rubs at the burning fatigue. The linen rustles as Dean's head rocks against the pillow and his hands paw agitatedly at the sheets, and Sam knows what it means, he's heard it often enough in the last few months, his brother thrashing against an onslaught of images from hell. But this time it gives him a secret thrill, the idea that Dean's subconscious might thwart heavens plan and float back some of the missing memories, because, on balance, he thinks Dean should have those memories, good or bad they shouldn't have been taken from him_._

The restless movement is punctuated by mumbling and Sam leans forward in his chair, straining for the words, wanting to hear, knowing Dean is unlikely to tell him about it later. Dean is speaking too low for Sam to understand, but he keeps listening anyway, hoping for some word that will give him a clue. When his brother lets out a few small moans Sam is appalled by his invasiveness and calls loudly, "Dean. Dean. Hey."

It's a slow realisation that his name's being called, Dean reluctantly rises to the surface. "Are we going?" he asks groggily, before he's properly awake.

"You were dreaming," Sam replies.

The voice causes Dean's eyes to snap open, his gaze to swing around the room, and when he alights upon Sam he startles in exactly the same way he did after the accident, disoriented and out of time, before he finds his footing, remembers where he is, and slumps a little against the pillow, dragging a hand down his face.

"What time is it?"

Sam checks his watch. "About midnight." Huh. Later than he thought. He hadn't intended to spend so long at the research.

Dean's travels his gaze to the open computer and Sam's still made bed. "You planning on sleeping tonight?"

"Yeah. I was just finishing up."

Dean pulls out a few pillows from behind him, deposits them on the floor and shimmies down to get more comfortable.

"You were dreaming about something," Sam says nonchalantly, feeling like it's none of his business but he's going to ask anyway. "You remember what it was?"

Dean frowns. "I don't know."

And from the tone Sam thinks he really doesn't, but then he's been fooled by his brother's innocent act before.

Dean thinks about it for a few seconds, then his brow jumps and he asks, "Wait. Did you...did you ever hook up with a chick on a job."

Sam thinks about Sarah. And Madison. And shit, maybe Ruby_. _He's about to ask for a physical description when a slow, smug grin spreads across Dean's face. "Oh my God, you so did. Sammy Sammy Sammy. That is so unprofessional. I'm surprised at you."

There is a few second delay while Sam catches up, realises that Dean just took a shot in the dark to make fun of him. "You jerk," he splutters, and there's feeling behind the words, irritated that ridicule ruined a moment of hope.

Dean barks a laugh. "Was she hot?" he prods. "No, I'll bet she was mousey. The scholarly type. You bonded over Dickens and Manilow."

"Fuck you."

"Don't be like that. I'm interested. I want to hear all about it. Your love life is important to me."

"I'm not talking about it," Sam replies curtly, and he's offended by Dean making light of a subject that, frankly, has been a bit of a horror show, which granted, Dean doesn't know, but he could still be more sensitive about it.

"But that is exactly the sort of thing I need to know," Dean crows. "Nailing chicks on the job should be number one on your list of things to tell me."

Sam stares at his brother with incredulous disdain and thinks _this is Dean without the weight of the world on his shoulders_. They are so far beyond this immature sort of teasing that it's a jolt to confront it.

At some level he feels that maybe he should be happy, Dean juvenile and unaffected is an improvement on the fractured despairing person he became. But he's not going back to being the butt of jokes, having his manhood called into question like it's something hilarious. He's not the same kid who went away to college, they don't relate like that anymore.

"You need to grow up," Sam says evenly, feeling a little sad about playing the heavy. "The world is ending. There are more important things to tell than who I've nailed."

It's an immediate wet blanket. The smile on Dean's face fades. "Whatever chicken little. Just turn out the light."

Sam is awakened to inky blackness by the squeak of springs. Dean is moving around, unsettled in sleep again, mumbling under his breath. Sam wonders how long it will last, the night time restlessness. It was relentless after Dean returned from hell, he wonders if amnesia is doing the same thing. There's nothing intelligible, urgent whispering, cut off words, then suddenly Dean yells, _Dad, _so full of fear and panic that Sam knows something happened to their father in the dream. There are gasping breaths, and Sam thinks his brother must wake because the mumbling stops and the panting slows to a normal rhythm. Sheets rustle like they're being pulled and folded and springs betray the sound of Dean trying to get comfortable. He sniffs, exhales deeply and the room lapses into silence.

Sam barely breathes through the whole thing. He feels guilty, witnessing without invitation his brother at an unintentionally vulnerable moment. It gives him an urge to apologise. And he remembers all the times that _he_ had nightmares, after Jessica died, how cool Dean was about it, how he just glossed over it and didn't ask questions. He wonders _how _he did that_,_ because Sam is _burning_ to know, if it's a memory returned, or a memory he knows, or just Dean's mind reflecting harshly on the sudden knowledge of their father's death.

He draws the conclusion that he _should_ know if Dean is recovering memories, because it might affect what he tells his brother, or how he tells it. And if memories _are_ returning then he may just sit back and wait for them. He would rather not have the responsibility of deciding what his brother should or shouldn't know, with the attendant moral compromise of supplying questionable summaries.

He just needs to figure out how to broach a subject about which Dean is going to be tight lipped.

* * *

"I think it's going to be subtle," Sam announces confidently, swipes at his mouth with a napkin and tosses it onto the cleaned plate.

He hasn't said anything about nightmares and neither has Dean. Not that he really expected his brother to but it would make things so much easier if Dean came out and said _I had a terrible dream about Dad last night. Did this actually happen...? _He's backburnered the topic for the moment, it's not the most pressing issue.

"From what I read," Sam continues, "I don't think it's going to be a possessed priest going postal, walking into a church and gunning everyone down, I think it's going to be more subtle than that. I don't think a priest is going to be possessed at all, I think they're going to be coerced into doing something at odds with their beliefs. That's the feeling I get."

"Let's leave your feelings out of this, shall we?" Dean says, not unkindly although there's a hint of sarcasm, more a matter of business.

"Yeah," Sam mutters, trying not to take offence. His brother in this incarnation has never hunted with him, their four year partnership never happened so Sam is untried and untested, back at square one when it comes to his credibility on things supernatural. Which is kind of ironic. He has a greater understanding of things supernatural than his brother could ever have. He glances at the notepad next to his plate and reads, "_And when He had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the Word of God, and for the testimony which they held_. Those are the words in revelations."

Dean ponders the words briefly. "So priests are going to be killed and stuffed under an altar," he summarises.

"That's a bit literal," Sam avers. "Priests are going to be killed, probably in a church, I don't know that they're necessarily going to be stuffed under an altar."

"Okay," Dean says slowly, forbearance in his tone. "Priests will be killed, probably in a church, where there is likely to be an altar. We can overlook the stuffing if you like."

Sam nods, heat creeping up his neck, embarrassed that he's being petty in his quibbles. He just doesn't want to be steamrolled, doesn't want his brother taking an unchallenged lead. That may be the way their relationship used to work but things have changed, and he's not going to be dominated by _this_ guy, who knows a whole lot less than him.

"However it goes down," Sam says, "there's going to be a demon at a church. There's going to be a priest acting suspiciously. And we need to find out where."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "The town isn't that big, there can't be that many churches."

"Fifty seven," Sam supplies quickly, something he's already researched.

"Fifty seven?" Dean exclaims with dismay. "What is there, a church on every corner?"

"Devout people," Sam offers, amused tip of the head. "Small town America, Dean."

"We'll be canvassing God lovers for days. And I really have a low tolerance for those people."

"Just tell them you speak with angels," Sam suggests, biting down on a smile. "You'll be their best friend."

He says it as a joke, but then wonders if maybe that's the way they _should_ play it. Go around to churches and say they've received a heavenly warning. If you can't convince the religious of the truth, then who can you convince?

Dean jabs at finger at him. "Not funny. No talk of angels today. This is a god free zone."

Sam gives a short laugh. "Good luck with that, when you're visiting all these churches."

Suddenly Sam's blood freezes, his eye catches on a familiar face at a table behind his brother. Ruby. For a moment he can't breathe. He's been so careful to avoid mentioning her to Dean, it's a can of worms he doesn't want to open. His brother won't understand. His brother didn't understand. A demon ally? It's an impossibility to Dean.

He jerks his eyes guiltily away from her, and rises sharply, catching the lip of the table on his thighs, clumsy enough to make Dean raise a brow. "I'm just..." Sam extricates himself from the confined space and waves vaguely toward the back.

"Yeah, dude, don't wet yourself or anything."

As Sam passes the table at which Ruby sits, he hears her slide out and follow.

When he reaches the passageway to the restroom he twists on his heel and makes sure he is out of eyesight of his brother. Ruby strides over, looking completely unapologetic about surprising him in a public place. They have an agreement about this. She knows they only rendezvous in private. At a time and place _he _specifies. And certainly not with his brother ten fucking feet away.

"What are you doing here?" Sam hisses.

"I know where Lilith is. Right now. I know where to find her." There's a wild gleam in her eye, a bloody excitement at the idea of a battle.

The name produces an almost pavlovian response in Sam. He wants so much to kill Lilith. The thought of confronting her makes his fists clench. He could right so many wrongs with that one act.

"What do you expect me to do with that?" he whispers angrily, getting in her space a little, because the timing is all wrong and it puts him in a tough position.

"Come with me," she throws back, arms out to the side like it's a no brainer.

"I can't just sneak out the back door with you. Dean is right there."

"Dean's a big boy. He can find his way back to the motel."

Sam's eyes flick in the direction of Dean, so blithely unaware, and he feels a well of irritation because his brother is a problem. His brother has always been a problem when it came to this quest, to working with Ruby, refusing to consider that his demon made powers could be a useful commodity, that engaging the enemy with more than holy water and latin is an _advantage_, not something to be ashamed of. It is an unending frustration that he can't make Dean _understand_.

And Sam seriously considers it. Taking off with Ruby and leaving Dean to his own devices. He could come up with a cover. He could say anything to Dean about having to leave all of a sudden, and Dean would have to believe it because he doesn't know any better.

It's tempting. But he isn't entirely devoid of reason and sense.

"I can't," he says reluctantly, and deep down he knows it's the right answer, he can't just ditch his brother, that would be cruel. "Dean's not...he had an accident..."

"Yeah yeah, I know, heaven screwed him over," she dismisses with a flap of her hand. "It's the punch-line of all the jokes coming out of hell at the moment. News travels fast."

Sam has to take a moment to push down a tide of anger, at heaven for making his brother a source of ridicule, and at her for treating it so flippantly. "Give me a couple days. I'll call you."

"I don't know where she'll be in a couple days," Ruby complains, starting to get loud, and Sam tenses his jaw and holds up a finger, a threat that she needs to be quiet, that he's going to walk away if she doesn't.

"We'll find her again," he promises quietly. "We've been playing this game for a while, we find her, we lose her, we find her again. You've gotta be patient."

"Don't be stupid," she hisses, stiff and coiled. "We have to do this now. You kill her and the house of demon topples. Nothing is more important than that."

The argument kicks him deep in the gut because he's been agonising over just that for months. _Is _there anything more important than killing Lilith? Is it worth alienating his brother to achieve? Is the sneakiness and underhandedness justified?

He vacillates between a self-righteousness yes and a dismayed no.

"I'm not leaving with you now."

The response is firm but there's a deliberate inconclusiveness to the words. He wants to go with her, she knows that, and his unwillingness to go _now_ hints at a willingness to go_ later_. Already his mind races with the possibilities of when. There are always opportunities to sneak away when his brother's not looking.

Ruby rams both hands into his chest and pushes, forcing him a staggered step back. She could put him through a wall if she wanted and Sam is impressed by her restraint, although he knows there's calculation to it. She needs him, she can't afford to get him offside. He's all she's got.

"You're a moron," she spits, fury in a pint size, and god help him he finds it appealing, that much passion and commitment, it makes him want to bite those pouty lips.

"Don't do this again. Don't meet me with Dean around, it just makes things difficult." His voice is like ice, betraying no emotion. He can't afford to show her any weakness.

"He doesn't even know who I am," she sneers.

"I don't care. Don't do it again."

She glares at him, her mouth a tight line, then turns and stalks for the door. He watches her leave and feels a bit shaky. If Dean ever found out what he was up to with Ruby it would be World War 3, life would get very difficult.

Ruby reaches the entrance and pauses, considers something for a moment, then doubles back, weaves her way back among the tables, and Sam feels the hair at his neck prickle in alarm because he knows exactly what she's about to do. He strides toward her, intent on intercepting, but she has too great a start on him, and their eyes meet in a second of furious challenge before she slides triumphantly into the booth across from Dean.

"Hi sweet cheeks," she fawns. "Fancy seeing you here."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sam glares at Ruby. His eyes most eloquently convey the depth of his aggravation. _If you say one word about who you are and what we've been doing I will honestly kill you._

It makes her smile a little brighter, knowing she has Sam over a proverbial barrel.

Dean stares in surprise at the woman unexpectedly sitting across from him. His mouth parts and forehead ridges because he can tell from the familiar greeting that he should know her and he doesn't, she has him at a disadvantage.

Sam slips into the booth, knocking against his brother's hip to make him slide over.

"Well hey Sam," Ruby says cheerfully. "Should have known you'd be close by."

Sam gives her a forced smile, more of a grimace, and straps himself in for the ride, no idea where it might be heading.

"Uh, listen sweetheart," Dean says casually, smooth tone hiding his discomfort, "your face isn't ringing any bells, and for the life of me I can't imagine why, because it really should."

"This is Ruby," Sam says through clenched teeth, the barest of hints to his deep displeasure at making an introduction he had no intention of making. He looks directly at the demon as he addendums, "You hate her a lot."

"Is that right?" Dean answers. He scrutinises the woman with a raised eyebrow and a half smile, looking intrigued. "Well I can't see why. What's there to hate?"

"Nothing at all," she returns innocently, full lips tilting upward, and adds in a dramatic loud whisper, "I think Sam has issues with women."

Dean breaks into a grin and returns in the same loud whisper, "He always has," and their eyes sparkle in shared amusement.

Sam is first offended by the slight, then appalled by the flirtation. Ruby's a pretty girl so he can understand Dean talking through his pants, but _she's_ just being malicious, mocking Dean in the most offensive way, teasing like an ingénue when she knows full well he'd grab her by the throat if he knew she was a demon. It disgusts him. He considers it amazing that he can swing so wildly between finding her attractive and finding her despicable.

"So what brings you coincidentally to this fine establishment," Dean asks, leaning forward in his seat, forearms pressing the table.

Ruby's eyes flick to Sam and back to Dean. "I came to meet a friend, but, I don't know what happened, he didn't show up."

Sam grinds his teeth at the thinly veneered dig.

"Sounds like a douche," Dean declares.

"I'm sure he had good reason," Sam disagrees. "But, uh,we were just leaving, so, you know..." He trails off as he slides out of the booth and gains his feet, looking expectantly at Dean to follow suit.

Dean doesn't move. He licks his lips and regards Sam coolly, not liking the assertion of authority. "What's your hurry? We can spend a few minutes."

"Yeah Sam, chill," Ruby pipes up.

Sam feels heat in his veins, his blood pressure spike a few points. He's trying to do the right thing, trying to get Dean out of a situation that, if he knew all that facts, he wouldn't want to be in. And frankly, Dean should be snapping to_,_ he should be following Sam's lead without question because Sam _knows_ what's going on and Dean's playing catch up.

He can't allow Ruby to engage Dean further in conversation because she's liable to continue dropping cryptic hints about a wide assortment of things, and Dean isn't an idiot. He'll catch on.

But he can't just out and say to Dean _Ruby is a demon_ because she's liable to say... well, there's a lot of things she could say; Sam has demon blood; Sam and I are sleeping together; Sam has freaky abilities...yeah, shit, no, he's got to get Dean away without anything incriminating being spilled.

He runs an agitated hand through his hair and levels a plaintive gaze at his brother, his most earnest, pleading eyes. "Please Dean. Can we just go?"

Dean clicks his tongue. "What is your problem Sam?"

"I just…" he darts a gaze at Ruby and hopes his brother interprets it as discomfort or uncertainty or anything helpful to his cause. "I just want to go. And we need to get to work."

Dean blinks long, shakes his head in barely contained annoyance and after a brief contemplative moment, where Ruby mercifully doesn't try and sway him otherwise, he expels a loud breath and mutters, "Fine." He recovers a charming smile for their female companion. "You're going to have to excuse my brother, he has the manners of a two year old."

"Don't apologise for me," Sam growls.

Dean raises his eyebrows at her as proof in point, then glides along the bench seat and pushes to a stand. He pauses for a second, ogling Ruby regretfully, places a palm on the table and leans toward her, lips brushing the chestnut hair near her ear, and whispers, "I don't know what you did, but I haven't seen Sam this upset since a girl in third grade tried to kiss him."

Her face breaks into a wide smile, delighted by the intimacy. Her cheek grazes his as she whispers in return, "I think it's Sam wants to do the kissing. A classic case of playing hard to get."

Dean breathes out a laugh as he pulls away.

Sam stares at them both in mute disbelief. He couldn't hear what was said, but the fact it was said in such close proximity is horrifying.

Dean raps his knuckles against Sam's chest. "Okay you little pain in the ass, let's go." With a final admiring glance at Ruby he says, "Nice meeting you."

"You too," she coos.

Dean strides for the door and Ruby bounds out of her seat before Sam can follow, clamping a hand on his arm. With glittering eyes she utters quietly, "Wow. I like him much better like this. I could stand to be with him now."

Sam gazes at her witheringly, choking on indignation. There are so many ways he could respond that he is struck dumb. And then he figures it's probably better that he doesn't say anything, whatever comes out of his mouth won't be polite, would probably cause a scene. And he just wants to leave. He just wants the whole sorry incident over with.

He yanks his arm out of her grasp and takes hurried steps to catch up with his brother.

They're barely through the door when Dean says, "What was that all about?"

"What?"

"You and her. Something I should know about?"

"No," Sam says flatly, and the answer is honest. _Nothing I want you to know about._

Dean stops in the middle of the car park, puts a palm on Sam's chest. "Alright Sam, what's going on?"

Sam flutters his hand impatiently, dismissively. "You don't like her Dean. You don't remember, but you and her are not friends. And it was just wrong seeing you pal around."

"I liked her fine then. Why didn't I like her before?"

"Because…"

Sam thinks about how he can impugn Ruby without revealing she's a demon, because even though she's out of earshot now, and he could disclose that fact without tit for tat, he finds he doesn't want to. Dean's a black and white kind of guy, if Sam discloses what Ruby really is Dean will want to exorcise her. Black and white. And Sam would have to argue against that, try and explain how she could be a demon _and _someone they can trust, that she's an exception to the rule, that she's valuable to them. There's an intricacy to the moral murkiness that Dean couldn't possibly understand, better to avoid altogether.

"She's just bad news," Sam offers, and winces at how unsatisfactory a response it is.

"But she's in such a good news package," Dean jibes, but is quickly serious. "That's not going to cut it Sam. That doesn't tell me anything. In fact bad news sounds like someone I might like to hang around with, so be more specific."

"It's just a clash of personalities," Sam offers weakly, and his mind whirls frantically because he knows that's not going to cut it either, he needs to be more compelling. "She's lied in the past. You hated being lied to. She told us things we wanted to hear…" _I can save your brother,_ "...and kept from us things that were important…" _did you know that Lilith held Dean's contract?_ "You even got into a fist fight with her once."

It's all true what he tells his brother, but Sam can segregate _that_ Ruby from _this_ Ruby. The Ruby before Dean's death was devious and inconsistent, he never found her entirely convincing, or entirely trustworthy. But when she failed to carry out Lilith's order to kill Sam she knowingly burned her bridges, and she can expect no allegiance or mercy from hell if she gets caught. It has resulted in a commitment and loyalty to Sam that is steadfast and undeniable. She's no longer the Ruby he's describing.

Dean draws his brows together, skeptical. "You mean I, like, punched her? That's a little hard to believe. She's tiny. I don't think I would have hit her."

Sam's fists clench at his side. Dean keeps doing that, challenging him on matters that he knows nothing about and it's like lemon juice on a paper cut, an annoying sting.

"Yeah well you did." There's provocation in his tone and Sam turns hard eyes on his brother, daring him to challenge again.

But Dean is distracted, face wrinkled in confusion. "What _is_ that?" he mutters. "Did I just turn on a radio?"

Sam listens and hears Dean's ringtone. "It's your phone."

"No. It's music. It's like a radio or something."

"It's your phone," Sam insists, tone a little too strident because he's being challenged again. "You've got a song as a ringtone." Dean stares at him blankly. "Just answer it. Look in your inside pocket."

Dean pats the outside of his jacket, then fishes inside and pulls out the cell phone. "Holy Crap. Look at the size of it. It's tiny."

Sam tries to cast him mind back to what kinds of bricks they were carrying around six years ago and can't picture it, seems like cell phones were always small.

Dean examines the device closely, coming to grips with the new technology. "It says Bobby on the screen."

"Then it's Bobby calling."

"Why would he be calling me?"

Sam shrugs. "I guess he wants to know if you're okay. He knows about the accident."

"Why would you tell Bobby?"

"I just did okay. Answer it."

Dean stares pensively at the phone, then tucks it back into his jacket. "Nah. I don't really want to talk to him."

The phone stops ringing and Sam shakes his head. "Dean...you're going to have to..." He's interrupted by the sound of his own phone ringing. "Yeah, exactly, Bobby's calling me now." He pulls the phone out of his pocket and looks uncertainly at his brother. "Is it okay if I..."

Dean flaps his hand, which Sam interprets as _yeah, go ahead_. He hesitates before pushing the talk button, wanders a few steps, and sees in his periphery Dean head for the car. He doesn't want to be talking about his brother while standing right next to him.

"Hey Bobby."

"_Heya Sam. How's Dean? I just tried to call him and got no answer."_

"He's okay. He's here with me. Still has the amnesia."

Bobby exhales. _"Damn. That's bad luck. I thought it was temporary."_

"It's not bad luck, it was deliberate. The angels did it."

There is a stunned pause, then Bobby says in his slow laconic style, _"The angels took Dean's memory?"_

"Yeah."

"_The angels_?"

"Yes Bobby, the angels."

"_You sure about that?"_

"It was Castiel who told me, so, yeah."

Bobby mulls it over for a moment._ "Why would they do that?"_

"Apparently they thought hell was too heavy a burden on Dean." Sam says it with a hint of mockery. "They thought he was going to lose it, I don't know, kill himself or something."

"_Was he that bad?"_ Bobby's voice climbs an octave, horrified.

Sam is startled by the tone. He was being flippant, but Bobby's horror gives Sam pause, makes him wonder if maybe he missed the point. He was so caught up in his outrage at the manipulation that he hadn't really considered the whys. Why _did_ the angels do it? As much as he wants to maintain the rage, he's pretty sure heaven wouldn't have taken such extreme action based on vague notions of Dean sliding mentally, something must have happened, something must have convinced them that they had to intervene. And suddenly he wishes Castiel was there to ask, because there are visions dancing in his head of Dean alone in a motel room staring at a gun, toying with a gun, pointing a gun at himself. It's just feasible enough to make him weak at the knees. There's a twisting uncomfortable feeling in his gut that it would explain a lot.

"_Sam_?"

"Yeah, sorry, uh," Sam shakes his head, pulls himself together. "I didn't _think_ he was that bad." He's saying it to himself as much as to Bobby, trying to soothe his disquiet. "I mean he was drinking a lot. And he told me some stuff about hell that was pretty harrowing. But I thought he was okay, you know, handling it."

That's not exactly true. He just thought Dean would get past it.

"_You want me to come down?"_

Sam would love to say yes, some support would be great, someone to share the burden of broaching the past. But it's not going to work with Bobby, not the way Dean feels about him at the moment. "No Bobby, thanks. Listen, did something happen between you and Dean six years ago?

"_Like what_?"

"I don't know. He's just acting weird every time your name comes up."

"_Weird how_?"

"Weird, like he's got a grievance."

"_Huh_." Bobby considers for a moment. "_Where is he up to? I mean, date wise_?"

"Somewhere around the end of 02."

There's silence as Bobby tries to figure out time frames in his head. "_Oh Christ,_" he groans.

"What?"

"_I think that puts him smack dab around the time I last saw your father._ _And that visit ended pretty unpleasant."_

Sam's feels a cold wash of dread. He wants to remember his father fondly, without all the bitterness that marred their relationship, and he has a delicate balance in his head of his father's pros and cons that allows it. He's not sure that balance will hold if Bobby tells him something unforgiveable.

"What happened?"

"_Aw Sam…_" Bobby drawls, sounding as reluctant to speak ill of the dead as Sam is to hear it. But Bobby's never been one to shy away from difficult truth and after a moment of awkward pause he launches into his recount. "_John arrived at my door one day, unannounced, with Dean in tow, and wanted me to help him with researching something, I don't remember what. And that was fine. I mean, your daddy was no stranger. And he was, you know, he was fighting the good fight, so I was happy to help. But it was a long frustrating day, we couldn't find what we were looking for, and when it came to night we put down the books, and me and him started drinking. And talking. And we ended up drinking a lot."_ He gives a short laugh, wry, regretful._ "Then he started saying some things...things that if I'd been a little more clear headed I might have brushed off, changed the subject. But I wasn't and I didn't._"

"What was he saying?" Sam asks quietly, wondering if Dad was saying things about _him, _if he's about to hear what his father really thought of him.

"_He was saying a lot of things,_" Bobby answers diplomatically, and Sam should have known he wouldn't be tactless, "_running his mouth off in a number of different directions, saying things I couldn't abide, and we're both pretty mean drunks, we both had a sharp tongue when there was liquor running through." _He pauses, lost a little in the memory. Sam hears the scratch of whiskers as Bobby rubs a hand across his jaw. _"Anyways, things got out of hand_._ It got physical. We smacked each other a few times and I ended up grabbing a shotgun and telling him to get the hell out. Said I'd shoot him if I ever saw him again."_

It occurs to Sam that their father had the ability to bring out the worst in everyone, and he quickly shoves the thought away because it's exactly those sort of critical assessments he's trying to avoid.

"So where was Dean through all this?"

"_He was sacked out on the couch. I don't know how much he heard but he jumped up pretty fast when punches were being thrown, tried to get himself between us and calm things down. But it was too late, there was no calming us down."_

Sam grunts knowingly, experienced in those sort of arguments with his father.

"_You know, it's one of my greatest regrets that I never made things right with John. I never hated him, I didn't even really hold a grudge, it was just easier not to call, not to make the effort to smooth the waters. And then I ran out of chances. I think that's one of the reasons I hold onto you boys so tight, it's my way of saying to your daddy there's no hard feelings."_

Sam clears his throat, and really doesn't want to talk about his father any more. "Thanks Bobby. Thanks for telling me. I think that probably explains where Dean's head's at right now. I'll talk to him. I'll make him understand that things are different, it's all in the past."

"_Yeah," _Bobby says despondently._ "I'll wait to hear from you then._"

"Yeah Bobby, yeah, I'll call you."

Sam ends the call and scrubs a hand across his face. It's exhausting, the unexpected side effects of Dean suffering amnesia. So much to work through and sort out.

He pushes wearily off the car that he's propped against, ambles toward where the Impala is parked and from a distance can hear the music thumping inside, all the windows rolled up and the bass pounding through the glass. He hesitates for a moment when he reaches the passenger door, gets a spiel straight in his mind, then pressures the handle and drops into the seat. He switches off the music, to an indignant _hey_, and says, "We need to talk about Bobby..."

"Holy Shit. Is that your phone?" Dean stretches out his hand toward where Sam's phone rests on his thigh, flexes his fingers in a _gimme_ motion and Sam automatically hands it over. "What the hell is with all the buttons?" he chuckles. "You'd need a college degree to work it." And abruptly he's quiet, staring at the device but not really seeing it, shutting his own mouth with talk about college degrees, a topic that _he's_ trying to avoid.

Sam would be okay talking about college, he's ready to explain it all, Jessica, why and how he left Stanford, but they need to stick to one topic and right now that's Bobby.

"I know what happened between Bobby and Dad..."

"No you don't," Dean interrupts, closes his eyes and shakes his head lightly. "You heard Bobby's version."

Sam drops his chin. "Yeah okay, I heard a version. But listen, the details don't matter, it was six years ago, and bygones have well and truly become bygones. It's been forgiven and forgotten and we're real close to Bobby now, he's helped us a lot, saved our asses more than once. And you're going to have to move past the resentment." Sam dips his head, trying to gain eye contact, but his brother's gaze is elusive. "Seriously Dean. You're going to have to put it behind you. Because we can't live this life without Bobby. We can't."

"We did before," Dean offers petulantly. "We've gone years without Bobby's help."

"Because we had Dad," Sam returns bluntly. "We need a replacement for Dad."

Dean's mouth twists bitterly, jaw twitches. And yeah, maybe the bluntness was kind of insensitive when Dean's only two days into the grief of Dad passing, but that's the situation, Bobby has taken on the role of their father, in more than just a professional sense, and in a number of ways he's better at it than Dad ever was. He answers his phone for a start.

"You already forgave him once," Sam says gently, trying to reel in the harshness. "So you _can_ do it."

"Maybe I used to be more forgiving," Dean shoots back.

"You're the same guy Dean. If you did it before you can do it again." Sam says it confidently, but he's not entirely convinced it's the truth. Different circumstances could quite conceivably produce a different outcome, and maybe Dean can't forgive Bobby this time.

"Yeah, well, I don't know if I want to. The things he said..."

Sam cuts him off. "They _both_ said things."

Dean stiffens. "Don't make this about Dad. Don't make Dad the bad guy."

Sam feels a long buried frustration rise to the surface, at Dean's loyalty to their father, the tolerance of his failings and the presumption of his righteousness. The man riled up Bobby for chrissake, it would take a special kind of provocation to do that. But he's not going to start down that well worn path of trying to enlighten Dean about their father's true character, and have Dean trying to enlighten him in return, it's a pointless exercise.

"It's not about bad guys Dean," Sam submits, frustrated. "I'm not saying Dad was in the wrong, and I'm not saying Bobby was in the wrong. I'm saying it was a long time ago and amends have been made, all has been forgiven. And we're at a place in our lives where Bobby is not someone we can say adios to, so you're going to have to make peace with him."

Dean sniffs, starts the car, backs out of the lot and with that the conversation about Bobby is over. Sam has no idea if his brother is feeling minded toward forgiveness or not, but he figures time will tell.

* * *

Dean tugs at the white collar, strokes the black cloth over his chest, and regards himself with dismay in the guise of a priest. "Why would you even have these?"

Sam replies straight faced, "I entered a seminary after I left college," and then feels bad at how completely his brother believes it. Dean gapes at him with eyes saucer round. "I'm kidding."

"Oh." Dean averts his embarrassed gaze. "I think it says something about you that I believed it."

"That I'm pious?"

"That you're moron enough to do it."

Sam coughs a laugh. "We used these outfits on a job and I thought they were worth keeping. You never know when being a fake priest might come in handy."

"I guess," Dean returns half heartedly. "Can't help feeling I'll be going to hell for it though."

A muscle in Sam's cheek twitches. It's such an innocent faux pas, and it's on the tip of his tongue to say _what, again?_ But Dean is completely oblivious. Such an altering, cataclysmic event, and he has no idea.

Dean slides a finger along the inside of the collar, trying to create some space for his neck. "Is it supposed to choke? Is that part of the sado-masochism of being a priest, you choke for God?"

"I thought you agreed to this," Sam says, patience worn thin by complaining and second guessing. "I thought we agreed that dressing as priests was going to open the most doors."

"Yeah yeah, settle down," Dean returns. "Just because I agree with the logic, doesn't mean I agree with the execution."

Sam frowns deeply, turns up his palms. "What does that mean? You want to do this or not?"

Dean is quiet for a moment. Slight frown, eyes a little unfocussed, Sam is familiar with the signs of deep thought.

"You know," he says slowly, "maybe we don't _both_ need to be priests. Maybe you can be a priest and I'll be a cop."

Sam eyes him doubtfully. "How's that going to work?"

"We can go around to churches saying some regional parish received a credible threat, like written death threats or something. You can be acting on the church's behalf and I'll be investigating." He nods, becoming more convinced of the idea. "I think that could actually work better than what we were planning."

Sam considers it, and reluctantly sees the merit. They were planning on passing themselves off as novices, talking in general terms to priests, about the church and parishioners, intending to draw the conversation around to anything strange. But Dean's suggestion could work better. It would cut through the chat and get to the heart of the matter.

But he doesn't ever remember doing a job where they played different roles, they've always gone in as partners. And he is dismayed by the unconvention of it. It feels like an underline of everthing that's wrong in their current relationship. _Things are different and let me show you how._

"Yeah, okay," Sam agrees, feigns nonchalance.

"Awesome," Dean proclaims quietly, and pulls out the white collar from the black shirt with unnecessary vigor, shrugs off the black jacket and starts looking through the duffel from which Sam produced the priestly vestments. "You got any cop uniforms in here?"

"No. You'll have to go in plain clothes."

"Now you're talking my language." Dean retrieves his own duffel from the foot of the bed and digs through it for appropriate attire.

"Tie and jacket," Sam comments, and Dean stops rummaging and fixes an odd stare at him, a mix of puzzlement and affront.

"Why would you feel the need to say that?"

"I just…" Sam falters. "I'm not sure what you usually wear with Dad, but you and me always wear a tie and jacket when we're cops."

"Whatever I wear with Dad is good enough to wear with you." He tilts his head, regards his brother with a knitted brow. "I know what I'm doing, Sam. I'm not an amateur."

"Yeah, dude, I know." Sam says lightly, feeling like he's been sprung, because he is a little nervous about working with Dean in this state, about how he's going to conduct himself, about how he's used to doing things. The dynamic between them is glaringly off and it's cause for concern. Sam isn't sure of their roles and he would really like to have it spelt out. And Dean is prickly about that sort of thing, always has been, takes offence when none is intended.

"When we go to these churches," Sam says carefully, mindful of his choice of words, "how about I'll talk to the priests and you scout around, looking for sulfur, or any other tell tale signs."

"Sulfur," Dean repeats, quick nod of the head. "Right."

The way he says it makes Sam wonder if he knows about demons leaving a sulfur residue. Frustrated annoyance courses through him because he wishes he could count on Dean to speak up when he doesn't know something, and he can't.

And suddenly fear of offense is overtaken by fear that his brother would face demons unprepared rather than admit to any holes in his knowledge.

"You know about demons right? You know that when you say christo their eyes turn black."

"Yeah Sam I know."

"And that holy water burns them?"

"Yes Sam," Dean bites out through gritted teeth. "This is what I mean when I say I'm not an amateur, I've been hunting for a while now, I do have a few skills. Jesus, I should be telling _you_ this stuff."

"Okay. I just don't know where you're up to," Sam soothes.

"Well rest easy, I know what I'm doing."

_Not entirely_ Sam thinks, but doesn't say it aloud.

Dean unwraps the last of the priestly vestments from his body, baring his torso, and Sam gazes distractedly at Castiel's hand print on his left shoulder. He doesn't see it that often, Dean has become uncharacteristically coy, tends not to walk around without a shirt on, like he's embarrassed about it, or ashamed of it or something. It's quite striking, the mark, pink and raised and so obviously in the shape of a hand that he wants to lay his own hand over it.

Dean follows the gaze and says, "Yeah, what the hell is this thing? Is that a burn? How did I get that?"

Sam gulps, lowers his eyes. _Don't mention hell._

"Yeah, ah, it's from Castiel. He got you out of a tight spot and it left that mark."

"Castiel," Dean snorts, still not sold on the angel. "What did that weirdo do?"

A surprising defensiveness rises within Sam. Castiel rescued Dean, they're looking at the mark that bears witness, and it deserves respect. With due solemnity, Sam says, "He saved you from demons. He got you out of a bad situation. If it wasn't for him you would have been screwed."

_You _were_ screwed. For too long._

Dean gives Sam a sharp look, and asks, "Where were _you_?"

It's quiet and accusatory and more meaningful than Dean realises or intends.

Where was he indeed. Getting drunk. Messing around with Ruby. Courting dark powers. Embarking on a vengeful quest.

"I couldn't save you." The words come out laden with shame, an awful confession. "I tried. But I couldn't."

Dean's face softens contritely. Even though he has no idea of the circumstances he gets the gravity, he gets the regret, and he's satisfied. "Okay. Sorry Sammy, I get it. I'm sure you tried hard."

Sam swallows against the lump in his throat. He doesn't know that he did try hard. He suspects that he could have tried harder. Too quickly his focus shifted to avenging his brother rather than saving him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The brothers spend the day visiting churches, and the dual guises, detective and priest, work surprisingly well, better than Sam had anticipated. Dean puts on this weary, disgruntled air, refers to priestly Sam as the tag along, truly seems put out at having God looking over his shoulder while he's 'trying to do a job' and just sells it, smoothes over the doubts and reservations people may have about the unconventionality of the partnership by making it appear to be a burden.

At various times during the day Sam looks at him and thinks _how can you be so convincing?_ With all that is going on, everything Dean's dealing with right now, the amnesia and how it must be affecting him, how is he able to put in a completely believable performance as this, kind of, put upon cop? He's so natural about it, throwing in technical terms and procedural references like it's something he deals with everyday and it puts Sam quietly in awe. It makes him wonder why he ever doubted his brother, thought he would somehow be less capable on the job. He's been over- thinking things, making too much of the lost six years. This is Dean. He has always been competent, always been committed and losing memories hasn't affected that. If anything it's made him less jaded, less drained, there's an underlying enthusiasm that Sam hasn't seen in a long time, a real desire to do what's right and kick some ass.

And there _is_ benefit in playing different roles, they interact with the people they question in different ways. Dean takes the lead in asking questions. He uses an efficient, clipped, _just the facts_ kind of manner when querying priests about anything out of the ordinary, anyone exhibiting strange behavior, anyone that seems threatening. The priests are friendly enough but guarded, careful about what they say, reluctant to reveal anything that may get a member of their flock in trouble, and constantly referring to _confidentiality_. It's understandable but frustrating, makes the investigation more time consuming as they try to cajole information out of reluctant informants. So they quickly develop a routine where Dean gets as much information as he can and then walks away, scouts around the building looking for evidence of demon activity, leaving Sam to engage the priest in more relaxed conversation, a less officious form of probing.

It works like gold.

The priests are much more forthcoming off the record, with a member of their own profession. The difficult part of the job, which comes from interviewing people under false pretenses, is that Sam can't be clear about what sort of information is relevant, he can't come out and say _we're only interested in the unnatural, the inexplicable and the freaky._ So when he does garner further information it is usually irrelevant, something of interest to the priest, something perhaps of a legal nature, but not of interest to them. But that is informative in itself. When they leave a church it is with the certainty that they are as fully informed as they could be.

They hit seven churches in that manner. Ingratiating themselves easily but without any real joy, finding nothing suspicious, nothing that makes them think demons have visited or might do so.

When they draw up in front of the eighth church Sam thinks, _this is it_. There's something about the building that trips his sensors and he can't pinpoint exactly what it is, can't see anything overtly out of place or odd, it is essentially a reaction based on nothing. But it's a strong reaction, a certainty initially, before the doubts and second guessing set in.

He gazes intently at the site, at the white washed wooden structure, square at the front with a bell tower atop, flaring out to a rectangular auditorium with a steeply gabled roof and arched stained glass windows running down the sides. A metal forged plaque out the front declares the church to be the oldest in the state. To the left is a cemetery, one of the old original kinds, haphazard looking, without appreciable order for where people were buried, aging monuments sagging and cracking.

The scene is gothic looking and somehow theatrical, the church is stereotypical in a way that almost seems false, a perfect example of an aging traditional church. It's the kind of place that has been the spiritual guide for generations of families and Sam could imagine a demon wanting to defile that, make a mockery of what has been a bastion of hope and righteousness to so many for so long.

As they walked up the path, Sam confides, "I think this is it. I think this is where it's going to happen?"

Dean jiggles his head slightly, side to side. "Okay random. What makes you say that? You got ESP for demons or something?"

_Maybe _Sam thinks. _Maybe the tainted blood makes me more sensitive_.

But it has to do with experience. He's around demons so much (Ruby) that he's starting to understand the way they think, get an idea about what motivates them. And they like to put on a show, they like to make a statement. If they're planning to kill priests then they'll want to do it in grand style, in a picturesque setting with a distinguished history.

"I just have a feeling about this place. There's something about it..."

Sam expects his brother to be dismissive, and Dean's mouth curls a little like he's not really convinced, but he examines the building closely, narrows his eyes and takes more interest in the details than he has at the previous churches. And now Sam's worried because his brother _has _taken him seriously and his feeling could be completely off, this church could have nothing to do with the job, and that would set his credibility two steps back.

They go inside and locate the pastor. Dean identifies himself as a detective from up state, launches into the spiel about written threats sent to the church at which Sam is attached, asks whether anyone in the congregation has been acting strangely in the last week. The priest eyes them suspiciously, as they all have, and as Dean talks it settles into vague curiosity, an intrigued acceptance. He shakes his head at the questions, apologizes that he can't be of any help in their investigation and Dean goes off to explore the premises, leaving Sam and the priest as conversation partners.

"You ever had a security threat before?" Sam opens with a grim smile.

The priest, Pastor Steven Caldwell, _(just call me Steve),_ is a middle aged guy with fiery hair and an explosion of freckles on his face. He laughs quietly at the question. "Can't say that I have. We're not usually the threatening type."

"Yeah." Sam drops his head and is about to cross his arms over his chest when he rethinks it, considers the pose more bouncer than priest, so clasps his hands behind his back instead. "It's a strange situation. I don't know why anyone would want to hurt priests. But the letters are pretty clear."

"What do they say?"

Sam shrugs mildly. "Stuff about Revelations. The end of the world. Said priests will suffer for their beliefs and it specifically refers to this town."

"I wonder why?" Steve muses.

"The detective seems to think it's a local, someone unhappy about the way the church is being run. Or just someone unbalanced. You sure you haven't noticed anyone acting strangely?"

The priest looks at him warily. "I already told the detective that no-one comes to mind."

"Yeah, I know," Sam placates, dimples a smile. "I'm not asking in an official capacity or anything, I'm just here to make sure that guy..." he jerks his thumbs vaguely in the direction Dean went, "takes the threat seriously. But you've gotta know the people in your church pretty well, I just wondered if anyone seemed a little off lately. Just between you and me."

Steve squints at Sam uncertainly, draws in his top lip between his teeth. He's got something to say, Sam can tell, but he's not sure about saying it, maybe wondering if it's relevant, maybe wondering about confidentiality. Whatever it is Sam wants to hear it.

He pushes, "Listen, these letters are fairly overt in their intentions, priests are going to be killed if we don't figure out who's behind it. And that could mean you. You are absolutely in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I understand about confidentiality, I do, but this is serious, we're talking about murder. So if there's something you want to say, tell me, and we can decide whether it's something the detective needs to know."

The priest nods slowly, weighing up the competing factors in his head, then shuffles a little closer to Sam. "There's this woman..." he starts quietly, breaks off to swing his head left and right looking for anyone nearby, afraid of being caught speaking out of turn. When he's satisfied there's no-one in the vicinity, even Dean is out of eye-shot, he continues in a low tone, "This woman started coming about a week ago, she comes every day and she says these _things_..." He locks eyes with Sam, casts a meaningful look.

"What sort of things?" Sam presses. _Be specific._

"It's just… I don't know," the priest shifts uncomfortably, weight moving from one foot to the other. "Stuff about choosing sides. The end of the world is coming and I have to choose sides."

_Yahtzee._

The priest shrugs like the whole thing is crazy, but the feigned unconcern is offset by the worry in his blue eyes, he's clearly disturbed. His tongue flicks across his lips, his forehead puckers as he continues, "She's so articulate about it. I mean, she doesn't come across as some crackpot spouting off, I've come across _that _before, people talking about the glory of heaven or the power of hell, quoting verse from the bible, losing touch with reality and you can tell they have mental problems. This is different. This woman seems normal, kind of charming actually, chatty and friendly but talking about the end of the world. And the _way_ she talks about it… like it's definitely coming. There's no…" the priest struggles to find the right words, flaps his hands a little in accompaniment, "…deep… emotional upheaval at the idea, she's not depressed or looking for answers, she talks about it casually. Seriously, but casually. Things like _I was considering going on vacation but with the war heating up I don't know if I'll have time."_ He jiggers his head, blinks quickly_._ "How am I supposed to respond to that? I just kind of gloss over it. I've never come across someone who talks about the world ending like it's just a natural part of life."

The priest tentatively raises his eyes to Sam's, makes sure he's following, seeking understanding and encouragement.

Sam bounces his head a few times. "What does she say about the war? Who's at war?"

"Um…" The priest looks sheepish. "Heaven and hell." His inflection rises at the end like it's a question.

"And why is she telling you about it? What does it have to do with you?"

"I don't _know_ why she's telling me about it," he says vehemently. "It's got _nothing_ to do with me, but apparently I have to make a choice. She says just because I chose this life, doesn't mean I have irrevocably chosen a side. I can be martyred for righteousness or join the stronger side and save humanity."

Sam frowns. "How could you save humanity?"

The priest's eyes skitter nervously to the floor, he hesitates before answering, "I don't know."

The guy looks so guilty that Sam draws the conclusion the woman has planted a seed, maybe not outright instructed him to kill people, but hinted at dirty work, suggested the way to 'saving the world' will be to sacrifice for the greater good, groomed him for the unpleasant task.

"Steve, you need to be careful. You need to be very careful with this woman."

The priest coughs an embarrassed laugh. "Oh yeah," he dismisses with a wave. "I'm not buying into it. The whole thing is ridiculous."

Sam's heart sinks at how Steve's eyes betray him. He is buying into it.

Sam nods wanly, travels his gaze around the room to see if Dean has returned because this is definitely something he should hear. But he's nowhere in sight.

"I'd be mentioning it to the detective if I were you," Sam suggests. He's going to be mentioning the woman to Dean whether the priest does or not.

"Nah, I don't think so," the priest quickly replies. "Lilith is all talk, a little eccentic. I don't want to get her in trouble for no reason."

Sam's hair prickles as if a cold wind blew at his neck, sending a shiver all the way down his spine.

_Lilith?_ _Fuck me, she's doing this one personally_.

He has a spike of adrenaline that makes him want to burst into action, shake the priest and yell _tell me where she is, tell me what she looks like_, _tell me everything._ At the same time he wants to run and find his brother and say _this is it, this is it, THIS IS IT!_

Fingers jiggle at his side, drum against his thigh and he tries very hard to steady the explosion of energy. "Does the woman come in at the same time every day?" he asks, with forced calm in his voice.

"No. She always comes in the morning but not at any particular time."

"What does she look like?"

Steve narrows his eyes, evaluating Sam. "Why do you ask? If we're not going to mention her to the detective?"

"Yeah you're right," Sam says nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter."

And he's thrilled to hear the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor, Dean returning from his investigations. When the priest isn't looking Dean holds up his right hand to Sam, wiggles his fingers, and Sam guesses it means he found something, maybe showing off yellow powder.

"Okay my little God fearing friend," Dean declares, rubbing his hand against his trousers, "we're done here."

Steve draws down his eyebrows in offence, thinking the over-familiarity is targeted at him and Sam leans over to quietly assure, "He's talking to me."

As they stride down the path toward the car Dean says, "Looks like you were right about this place, there's sulfur all round. Maybe you do have demon ESP after all."

Sam ignores the tease and states, "It's Lilith. Lilith's the one trying to break the seal."

Dean looks at him sharply, pauses for a second as he gets facts straight in his mind. "You told me about Lilith, right? Major cheerleader for the apocalypse?"

Sam nods.

"Damn." His face clouds over, then lightens as he says, "But we are fighting for the Almighty, that's got to count for something." There's amusement in his eyes but something serious underneath, like maybe he's coming around to the idea that heaven and the angels exist. "Castiel seems to think we can take her. And I would hate to let that little weirdo down." He flashes a grin, but there's a querying raised eyebrow in accompaniment, a slight tear in the bravado waiting to see Sam's reaction.

Sam smiles, feeling elated. "Bitch is going down."

Dean laughs in surprise, then nods his approval.

Sam's stomach flutters in excitement. He's been wanting to confront Lilith since Dean was dragged to hell, been on a few desperate runs with Ruby to find her but she's always managed to stay a step ahead. And now here she is, totally unexpected. And it feels right, the timing is perfect, he's been working on his powers with Ruby and he's ready for the showdown. He has his confidence in check, he knows that she's been plying her skills for centuries, she's much more experienced and way more ruthless than he is, whatever happened last time between them when her strike at him didn't work, he can't count on happening again, she'll come at him differently next time. But with his power increasing every day, she's going to be surprised by how worthy an adversary he has become. And he really wants to send her into oblivion, his motivation is through the roof.

"She's laying the foundations with that priest," Sam reports, keeping it casual, a tight lid on his emotions. "It's going to be him that does the killing. And I don't think he's far off being convinced. He finds her _charming_." He grimaces at the assessment.

"Really?" Dean threads a quick glance over his shoulder toward the church. "He seemed an okay guy."

"He is an okay guy. But she's very convincing." Sam frowns. "Although I'm surprised at her subtlety. A week of talking? She's usually more the shock and awe type. The guy doesn't know how lucky he is she hasn't twisted his head off. Or someone's nearby."

"Oh, she sounds delightful."

"She is a piece of work," Sam agrees. "She usually inhabits children. I think maybe she died as a child. I don't know, but it is seriously disturbing."

Dean's face wrinkles in disgust. "Okay, well, we need to keep an eye on that priest."

"Yeah, we do."

Sam convinces his brother to take up an unobtrusive position watching the church while he makes a quick trip back to the motel to change out of the priestly vestments. Dean resists the idea at first, urges Sam to stay in the attire, not just for his amusement (and he does find Sam dressed as a priest amusing) but because it's going to look odd if they have to enter the church again and he is differently dressed. But he is swayed otherwise when Sam contends that the outfit is restrictive, difficult to fight in if it came to that, and Dean, reluctantly but practically, sees the merit in the pit-stop.

It never occurs to him that Sam has an ulterior motive for the separation.

Sam isn't more than two streets away before he extracts his phone from his pocket. With one hand on the wheel and a distracted eye on the road he scrolls through his call register looking for Ruby's number. It frustrates him that he can't save her number, can't risk Dean seeing the name Ruby light up the screen, and he fumbles to find her contact details every time.

She answers the call with the sarcastic greeting_, "Oh, we're friends again are we? I don't know that I particularly want to talk to you after that persona non grata performance in the diner."_

"Lilith is here," Sam interrupts. "She's trying to break a seal, working a priest at one of the local churches."

"_What?" _Ruby sounds skeptical. "_That's not the information I have_."

"Well your information is wrong," Sam snidely replies.

"Someone's_ information is wrong_," she condescends.

He exhales his annoyance. Everything's a confrontation with her. "I'm not going to argue with you about it. I'm _telling_ you, Lilith is hanging around the church. You can miss the party if you want but I'm going to finish that bitch once and for all." He hangs up before she can respond, irritated that they can't have a conversation free of rancor, but smugly certain she will figure out which church he's referring to and take up a hidden position.

He returns to his brother within the half hour, more comfortably attired in jeans and a t-shirt with a jacket over the top. Dean flashes a relieved smile as he drives up causing Sam a twinge of guilt that he can't quite fathom, doesn't know why his brother happy to see him makes him feel bad and doesn't really want to explore it. Dean lopes to the car and Sam slides along the bench, relinquishing the wheel.

"What, did you shave your legs while you were at it?" Dean accuses as he climbs in. "What took you so long?"

"I was in the room for like five minutes," Sam protests, lips thinning unhappily.

Dean cheshires a grin, mumbles, "It's just too easy," as he checks the mirrors and pulls away from the kerb. He pilots the car around the corner and up the street, brings it to a halt in front of a double story suburban home with a vantage of the church that allows them to watch in relative obscurity. He slouches down in the seat and finds a comfortable position, anticipating an extended stake-out.

It's late afternoon and Sam quickly feels self-conscious about the way the sun throws off brilliant shafts of light from the car's glass and chrome. Being in a classic car is conspicuous enough, but one that glitters like a disco ball is going to get them in trouble. They don't usually have to worry about being noticed, usually they reconnoiter at night, and Sam slinks down in the passenger seat, finds an eye-line just above the dash and fervently hopes no-one in this nice suburban neighborhood gets suspicious and calls the police.

Dean fills in the idle hours with reminiscing. _You remember when we did this...? You remember when Dad did that...? You remember when we lived here...?_ It's like he's trying to ground the memories he has, explore them, validate them and make sure they're stuck fast. At first it's fun, Dean throws up incidents that Sam has forgotten all about, and they laugh together about childish pranks. But then it gets frustrating, Dean talks about things that happened over ten years ago with a much keener memory, it's all a bit vague and forgotten for Sam. And finally it becomes aggravating, talking about things that aren't relevant, hearing about how naïve and idealistic they used to be. It's a pointless, kind of depressing exercise which draws into focus how worn down they have become, how far from their childish innocence they have travelled.

But Sam doesn't tell Dean to stop, because reminiscing means he's not asking difficult questions. He drifts off into his own thoughts, interaction wanes until it's just listening for the pauses and responding in grunts.

"What are you doing here?"

Sam misses it at first, doesn't catch that his brother has shifted from the _remember when_ questions, and grunts a response. But there's a time lag catch up and it clicks that the subject has changed.

"What?"

Sam turns to his brother and sees that he's troubled, it's reflected in his face, in his posture, he's lost the loose light-heartedness.

"Why are you here?" Dean repeats simply, and Sam is irked by the lack of elaboration, the question has huge scope.

"You know why I'm here," Sam snaps, his patience affected by boredom. "To save the seal."

"Yes, but I've been trying to figure out _why_. Why Sam? Why are you hunting? What are you doing here?"

He pauses, stares expectantly at Sam, who repeats, "I'm here to save the seal," as stubborn in his obtuseness as Dean is in getting to the point. Sam has an idea of what Dean is asking, that it has to do with the transition from college to hunting, but he's not going to volunteer information without being certain of the scope of the question.

Dean huffs in annoyance, absently shifts his gaze to the distant church and for a moment it appears that he won't pursue the matter. But then he draws in a breath, flicks an uncertain glance in Sam's direction and says, "It's just…You were so _determined_ not to do this. When you left you made it pretty clear you weren't coming back, you weren't ever going to live this life. And you scorched your bridges on the exit. You called Dad a fucking retard for a start."

"Emotionally retarded," Sam quietly corrects with a wince, memory still pretty clear on that last big fight and the grenades he lobbed.

"Right," Dean nods. "And that's fine, whatever, you said your piece in no uncertain terms and it was…" he considers for a moment, tips his head and finishes, "well it was harsh frankly. I mean you also called him a pathetic loser with a hero complex but hey," he shrugs benignly, "you played it how you played it. You went out with a bang."

"Yeah alright," Sam says shortly. Christ, Dean's refreshed memory is a real pain in the ass.

Dean raises his hands defensively. "I'm not trying to hehash it. You did what you did and I get it to an extent. But it just makes _this_…" he flutters a hand, motions at the two of them together, "impossible to understand. I've been going through in my head how this could have come about, and…" he sniffs a wry laugh, "I'm stumped. It just doesn't make any sense. How do you go from _that_, the _fuck you, losers_ attitude, to sitting beside me in a car staking out a demon? What was the point of the performance if you weren't that committed? Why put us all through it if you were just going to change your mind?" He rubs fingers tiredly across his brow. "Shit Sam, it's been a tough year." He frowns, looks startled by the admission and rolls his hand through the air like he can reel it back in. "I mean, it was fine, it was fine, just the not talking thing… I don't know how it turned into that. We haven't talked in a _year_. How did we get past that? How did we get to where we are now? I can't even imagine."

Sam takes a moment to digest and consider. It's worse than Dean thinks, they didn't talk for _three_ years. And it seemed so right at the time, reasonable that he should walk away, cut himself off from the family and be done with all things supernatural. Now it seems immature, he doesn't know how he ever thought he could get away with it. Even putting aside what happened to Jess, which forcefully drew him back into the life, how did he ever expect to live a staid, distant life knowing people were getting killed by unnatural things? It seems naïve. His father told him as much as he walked out the door.

"You came to Stanford," Sam says slowly, and really hopes Dean doesn't ask when because he'd rather not admit it was two years down the track. "You needed help on a job…" He has a fleeting dilemma about whether to reveal Dad went missing and decides to wait and see if it's relevant_. _"…and you asked me to go with you. So I did. It was supposed to be a one off thing, just the weekend but when I got back to college I found my girlfriend pinned to the ceiling, and she burst into flames. Just like Mom. So I left, took up hunting with you and we've been doing it ever since."

Sam darts a gaze at his brother, sees him wide eyed, mouth slightly agape. It feels a little strange relaying the story about Jess, he doesn't want to sensationalize it, and also doesn't want to play it down, but it happened over four years ago and it's no longer as big a deal as it sounds. In fact it kind of pales in comparison to some of the things that came later, shooting a woman he really liked because she was a werewolf, watching his brother get mauled to death by hell hounds. Jess's death was an important event in his life, a defining moment that set his future on a completely different track, he lost the woman he loved and it was momentous at the time, but now it's dulled and he feels removed, almost like it happened to someone else. He can see in his head Jess on the ceiling, but the overwhelming emotion that used to be attached to that image is muted, no longer overwhelming. And it's not just a case of time healing the wound, he's changed. He used to feel things keenly, he used to be sensitive and he just isn't anymore. When Dean died he developed a cold detachment that he can't shake off. A self-preservation technique that just won't quit.

"Your girlfriend was killed the same way as Mom?" Dean is aghast. "Holy Crap! That's awful. Are you okay?"

Sam smiles wanly. "It was a long time ago. And I have come to terms with it.

"Did you find out what did it?"

Sam is taken aback by the question, can't remember a time when they didn't know what killed their mother, it seems to him like they always knew it was a demon. But then Dad was pretty cagey about it growing up, sensitive or secretive Sam isn't sure which, and he can't recall when they knew for sure she was killed by a demon, if it was something their father told them or they worked out for themselves. Obviously the certainty came at a time later than Dean's been thrown back to.

"It was a demon. She was killed by a demon."

Dean nods tautly, like it confirms what he suspected. "Do you know why?"

Sam's shoulders hitch up near his ears. "I don't think there's any grand plan to these things. Demons like killing people so they kill people."

Dean hesitates, lips rounded in disbelief. "So Mom and your girlfriend were just random victims?" He pauses, expecting more information, but Sam bobs his head and remains silent. "There's got to be more to it than that. There's got to be more to it than wrong place wrong time."

"Like what? What more could there be?"

Sam shifts his gaze out the passenger window, pretending to check the church, and feels cruel, feels like he's taunting his brother with his lack of knowledge because he knows damn well what more there could be and it's nothing that Dean could guess at. Both Mom and Jessica were killed because of demon plans for Sam, Mom because she tried to interfere on the night the demon entered his nursery and Jessica because she was _in the way_, whatever that means. And he doesn't want to reveal either of those things to Dean, he doesn't want him to know about the demon blood and weird powers, demon plans and the call from the dark side. He likes that his brother doesn't look at him with a disapproving judgmental air, likes that there's not an underlying friction about something he never asked for, never wanted, would give up if he could. The demon blood was starting to define him in their previous relationship, starting to be all that mattered about him. It was all _don't do it don't do it don't do it_, like he could deny what was inside. Dean had no idea what it felt like having this power coursing through but still presumed to dictate how he should deal with it, made no attempt at understanding, just brought down the hammer. It's a lesson learned. Dean can't handle the knowledge, can't deal with the reality that _Sam has demon blood_, and Sam isn't going through it again, isn't going to volunteer for that criticism afresh.

Dean sends out a breath through his nose, shakes his head in grudging resignation. "So what happened to this thing, this demon? Are we chasing it? Did we get it?"

"You shot it. It's gone."

Dean frowns. "You can kill demons with a gun?" He says it hesitantly like maybe it's something he should know.

"Oh, no, we had a special gun. Samuel Colt made a gun that kills anything, demons included. But we don't have it anymore, it was stolen."

"It was stolen?" Dean exclaims. "What are we, the three stooges? Two stooges." He tilts his head, "Well you're a stooge, I'm awesome. How did we lose something like that?"

Sam thinks it must be nice talking about yourself as if it's someone else, absolved of blame. "There was this chick, Bela… you know what, it's a long and boring story. The upshot is we lost the Colt. And it's in demon hands now, so we're not getting it back."

He doesn't mention that there used to be a demon killing knife as well. It's just another story of a weapon they had and lost.

"There was this chick…?" Dean repeats, smile edging up his lips, and Sam is amazed how easily distracted he is by the mention of a woman. "Tell me more about this chick."

Sam shakes his head, thinks _you're incorrigible_. "Bela. She was a pain in the ass. But beautiful." He says it as a tease, trying to convey _you really missed something_ but as soon as it comes out of his mouth he knows that's not how it will be interpreted.

"Sammy, you dog."

"What? I can appreciate a beautiful woman."

"You can? How much can you appreciate a beautiful woman?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I didn't sleep with her." His face twists in disapproval at his brother's one track mind. As an afterthought he adds, "And neither did you."

"Really?" Dean's eyebrows fly up in surprise. "Why not? Was she married or something?" Under his breath he adds, "No, that wouldn't have made any difference."

"Let's just say she was physically attractive but personally repellant."

"Huh." Dean doesn't get it. Personality doesn't usually have anything to do with sexual conquest. And come to think of it, Sam's not sure why it did on this occasion. He wonders if maybe Dean asked the question and was rebuffed. "So when do I get to meet this psycho beauty queen?"

"You won't. She's dead."

"Oh," Dean says mildly, face falling in disappointment. Suddenly he stiffens, leans forward in his seat and peers out the window. "Demon loving God boy at twelve o'clock."

Sam sighs inwardly. Why can't Dean just call a priest a priest?

Dean starts the car and Sam jumps in surprise. "Whoa, what are you doing?"

"Following the omen."

"No," Sam says fiercely.

"He's going to kill people Sam," Dean declares in exasperation. "We have to follow him."

"He's going to kill them at this church. We don't need to follow him."

"We don't _know_ he's going to kill them at the church."

"You saw the sulfur Dean. This is where it's going to happen."

Dean pauses uncertainly, chewing his lip, eyes on the priest who's climbing into his car. "I still think we should follow him."

"I say we stay and set up some protection in the church." Sam presses his lips together.

"How about I follow and you stay," Dean suggests.

"No! No splitting up." The idea of Dean chasing around on his own is out of the question. For all the admiration Sam felt for him today, he's still a loose cannon. The inexperience could have him poking his nose into dangerous corners. But Sam can't out and say that, it would prompt Dean to take off just to spite him. "It's going to take ages laying salt and devil's traps in an area that big. We need to do it together, before the priest comes back."

Dean isn't fooled, he knows what Sam is doing. He rolls his head, kneads fingers into the base of his neck. They sit in undecided silence for a moment before Dean says, "Devil's traps huh?" He darts a glance at his brother and Sam can see the acquiescence in his expression. "I'm imagining some elaborate mousetrap for demons. Tell me it involves a basket dropping on a demon head." He reaches for the keys in the ignition and kills the rumbling engine.

Sam chuckles, grateful for Dean's conciliatory back down. "Not nearly so much fun." His brow wrinkles. Did he not mention devil's traps before? He needs to start keeping notes about what he's told his brother and what he hasn't, important information is slipping through the net. "It's a diagram. You get to graffiti. You'll love it."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Dean steers the Impala into the church car-park and rolls it to a stop as far from the road as he can get, letting the darkening sky hide the vehicle from casual observers. They gather what they need from the trunk and Dean quirks an eyebrow when Sam grabs a can of spray paint.

"You weren't kidding about the graffiti."

"I never kid about graffiti," Sam replies with mock seriousness and Dean flashes a grin so full of enthusiasm and delight that it throws Sam for a moment. He's kind of gotten used to underlying tension between them, especially when it comes to jobs involving demons. But right now Dean is excited about them being together, about them hunting together, face split like it's a wish fulfilled, and it makes Sam ache for that less complicated time when they were just two brothers touring the country fighting things that go bump in the night. No friction over demon powers. No lingering stench of hell. Maybe he's looking through rose colored glasses but they feel like good times.

Dean's grin is infectious. Sam can't help returning it.

The back entrance to the church is locked and they dump their hard to explain load at the foot of the door and walk around front to reconnoiter. They've been watching the place, mentally accounting for entries and exits, and although pretty confident the building is empty it's better to be cautious than caught with an armload of salt and paint in a church. That would require some fancy talking.

Dean pushes open the heavy oaken front door, the aging hinges screech a little in protest, and they make their way inside, through the small rectangular foyer into the imposing main hall. Sam winces at the way the wooden floor echoes, booted footsteps sound like cannon fire, reverberating hard off the walls.

Dean stops half way down the central aisle, bringing Sam up short behind him and the sudden absence of foot falls is as jarring as the previous clamor. He waggles a finger at the stained glass windows, the bottom edges of which are at least eight feet off the ground, an invitation to the congregation to look but not touch, and slides his eyes to Sam.

"That's going to be a problem."

It's an understatement that makes Sam sniff in amusement. Yes, trying to salt those windows will be a problem.

"Don't suppose we've got a ladder in the car." Dean says it sarcastically but there's a glimmer of hope in his eyes, like maybe there _could_ be a ladder stashed in the car, a useful invention that might have been installed in the last six years.

Sam snuffs the glimmer with a rueful shake of his head.

They stare for a moment in silence at the too high windows, considering how they're going to tackle them. Even if they could reach the sills they're narrow, sloping downward and it looks like salt might slide off.

Sam wonders if it's deliberate, one of the reasons Lilith chose the church, not just for the historical significance but because it is a challenge to protect.

"We'll just have to lay the salt underneath," Sam suggests.

"And hope the maid doesn't come," Dean quickly returns.

Sam lifts his eyebrows and presses his lips together in a resigned kind of expression. They don't have a lot of options. If the priest sees the layer of salt on the floor and reaches for the broom, c'est la vie, there's not much they can do about that.

"I guess we could salt both inside and out," Dean suggests hesitantly, a curl of his lip. He doesn't need to add that it's not ideal. Salt outside exposed to the elements can be blown away, rained away, scuffed by animals, its effectiveness is negligible. But it's something. If it holds it's extra protection at the windows and for that reason Sam nods in agreement.

They venture toward the back of the church, past a couple of small rooms hidden behind the main hall, one of which is an office surprisingly well appointed with computer and equipment.

"I guess this is where Steve surfs the kiddie porn," Dean jokes, head doing a quick poke in and out of the doorway.

"Dude..." Sam grimaces.

"What?"

"Can you stow the stereotyping?"

Dean shakes his head with mock dismay. "So naïve. Why else would a priest have a computer?"

"To write sermons."

Dean rests a hand on the younger shoulder. "Oh Sammy."

Ugh, he hates that name. It always sounds so condescending. And Dean's been using it a lot in the last few days

"Don't…" Sam blinks long, draws in a suffering breath and then wonders if he ever told this Dean that he doesn't like to be called Sammy. When did he take that stance? Over six years ago? He's pretty sure it came up in teenage years. But just in case he takes off the heat as he states, "Don't call me Sammy. I'm not a kid anymore."

Dean's eyebrows trip up. "Sure you are Sammy. You'll always be a kid to me." He says it lightly, but there's something in his eyes. Sadness?

"Just…don't," Sam says earnestly, doesn't want to make a big deal of it but wants his brother to know it's a serious request.

A small tilt of the head reads more like _I'll think about it_ than agreement and Dean continues down the hall without reply.

Tucked in the back corner of the building is a kitchen decades past refurbishment, aging upright stove sagging forward and faux wood laminate bench tops chipped and worn.

"Should have used some of the office money in here," Dean says as Sam draws beside him in the doorway.

"Guess it doesn't get used much," Sam replies.

Dean strides into the room aiming for the external door on the back wall, on the other side of which is the gear they laid down. He turns the handle but the door doesn't budge, a silver dead-bolt keeping the door firmly closed, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

"Why would you deadbolt a back door and leave the front door open?" Dean opines, as his gaze traverses the immediate area hoping to alight on the key.

"I don't know," Sam says, then adds mischievously, "but I'm gonna need that door open to properly lay the devil's trap." He quirks an eyebrow, purses his lips and it is clearly a challenge to Dean to pick the lock.

He doesn't really know why he says it because he doesn't need the door open, or need Dean to open it, he just has an urge to test his brother and see how he responds. It's not that he thinks Dean can't pick the lock, he'd lay money that he can, it's the response to the challenge that he's interested in. He doesn't really know this version of Dean and it's interesting to him, on a kind of experimental level, to press some buttons and see what happens.

"Okay. So open it." Dean steps back from the door and sweeps his arm in a _be my guest_ gesture.

It surprises Sam. He expected Dean would want to show off not defer. "I thought _you_ were the family locksmith," he needles.

"Oh I know that _I _could open it, I'm just wondering if you can."

And there it is, the showing off Sam was expecting. He rolls his eyes to meet his brother's gaze and isn't prepared for the honest inquisition in Dean's face, genuinely questioning whether Sam can pick the lock.

A fiery insulted flash sweeps Sam from top to toe. "I can pick a lock."

"Can you?" Dean folds his arms provokingly across his chest. "Because I seem to recall you used to have a little trouble..."

_What? _Sam's mouth slackens indignantly. He raises a finger and says slowly, "You'd better not be talking about that time at the Jenkins house. Because I was like ten. And that doesn't count."

He cringes at how immature it sounds, protesting like he's five.

And he's annoyed at himself for taking Dean's bait. The challenge he had intended for his brother thrown so skillfully back at him.

But most of all he feels angrily defensive because, yeah, he used to have trouble picking a lock when he was young. He just didn't have the touch for it back then. He'd found the touch eventually, but lagged way behind Dean who was just naturally fucking dexterous at everything. Tough footsteps to follow. And the unfairness of it still rankles. It wasn't that he was envious of his brother, growing up he was kind of in awe of those skills, but it was unfair that he was expected to be as good, that their father held him to that standard and couldn't see he excelled in different ways.

"Everything counts," Dean says with mock sympathy, like it's one of those unpleasant, unavoidable life lessons, and the sentiment only serves to inflame Sam more because it is at the root of everything that plagues his brother, the notion that whatever the situation you are judged by your actions. It's what got them _into _this amnesia mess, Dean worked into such a state of self loathing over things that a reasonable man would forgive, would mitigate in the circumstances (like torturing souls _under duress_)_._ It's a grievously flawed attitude.

"Well everything shouldn't," Sam replies shortly, pressing his hands to his hips. "I don't know where you got that idea from. _(Dad)_ Sometimes things don't count. Sometimes they shouldn't."

Dean is taken aback for a second, then barks a sharp laugh. "Well that's a change in position. You were the king of accountability back in the day. Didn't see you cutting Dad a break too often."

Sam's back teeth grind against each other. Dad's been dead nearly three years, it's a pointless argument, but it still takes control not to bite back.

After a long strained pause Dean pointedly changes the subject. "So, you opening this door or what?"

It breaks the tension, and Sam chuffs a laugh, amused by his brother's persistence, although wondering idly if Dean's worried that he may be out of his element, that locks may be different now, beyond him.

"Yeah, okay," he sighs

He draws the lock picking tools out of his pocket and cracks the lock fast, faster than Dean would have ever seen him do it. He's had a lot of practice in the last few years. He doesn't say anything, doesn't gloat, just throws open the door and waves his brother through. Dean gives a small smile, nods in a way that indicates he's impressed and Sam finds it satisfying, praise enough.

Dean grabs the bag of salt by the door and continues into the outdoors, walks around the corner of the building to start salting the exteriors of the window. Sam picks up the canisters of paint and retreats back inside to work on drawing a devil's trap at the back door. When he has finished the design he moves through the church to lay another trap at the entrance, passing his brother who is now salting the interior, crouched down laying a line of salt on the floor hard against the wall, trying to somehow make it blend into the white of the wall, as inconspicuous as possible.

At the entrance Sam is dismayed to find no lock on the wooden door, no way of preventing people entering while he's on his hands and knees spraying the devil's trap. He considers jamming the door closed with a piece of furniture but it's a lot of effort and cumbersome to work around so he makes the decision to take his chances, hope he can finish the trap before anyone enters and it seems a reasonable proposition, they've already been in the building half an hour without interruption.

When he's part way through the artistry, scrawling the symbols around the pentagram, Dean leans into the doorway, folds his arms and watches.

"Salt's done," he says unnecessarily, wouldn't be lounging around if it wasn't. He adds, "It's pretty damp outside, don't like the chances of the stuff out there holding up."

Sam grunts. There's a few seconds of silence before Dean says, "So how does this work?" and pushes himself off the jamb to take a step closer.

"If a demon steps inside the circle, they can't get out," Sam says curtly, conversation distracting when he's trying to remember the order of things, but he immediately regrets the tone because Dean _should _be asking questions, he needs to understand this stuff and Sam _should_ be explaining. It's just hard when he's trying to concentrate.

Dean stares intently at the design, figuring out the significance of each symbol and invocation, bobbing his head a little when it makes sense.

In a more agreeable tone Sam says, "It holds a demon while you exorcise them. Their power is contained."

"Okay." Dean watches for a few more moments. "Interesting symbols. Did _Dad_ teach you about this?"

Sam detects a faint hint of jealousy. _Why didn't Dad teach _me_ about this? _It's jealousy misplaced because Dad didn't teach either of them about it, Bobby did, but Sam doesn't really want to say that, not while Dean has his current prejudice that may or may not prompt a tirade at Bobby's name being uttered.

"No, it was in a book." Sam keeps his head down and hopes Dean doesn't ask where he got the book.

Dean chuckles lightly. "That'd be right. Geekitude paid off. Did you tell Dad about it?"

It's weird the way Dean keeps involving their father in conversations, like he's still around, obviously having trouble with the idea that Dad is _gone._ Sam finds it kind of exasperating.

Before he can respond there is a screech of hinges, the front door being pushed inward and Sam freezes, caught in a moment of uncertainty. Keep going on the trap and let Dean handle the intrusion or jump up and act dumb, like they'd just come across the scrawl themselves?

He shoots an enquiring gaze at Dean but there isn't time to reach a decision before an elderly man takes a step inside the door and stops short, startled by the sight of the brothers. There's a moment of stunned silence, all of them unsure how to proceed, until the intruder drops his gaze to a kneeling Sam and travels it downward to the painted symbols on the floor.

"What's going on?" he asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Police business pal." Dean dives a hand inside his jacket, pulls out the fake ID, flashes it open, snaps it shut and returns it to his pocket in the space of seconds. "Come back later and we'll be done."

The man frowns, slides his eyes from Dean to the design. "What are you doing to the floor?"

"Nothing. It's need to know and you don't need to know." Dean takes a few steps toward him, skims around the outside of the devil's trap, reaches once again inside his jacket and Sam assumes he's going to flash the badge in closer proximity.

"This isn't right," the elderly man mutters, tracking Dean as he moves closer. "Where's Pastor Caldwell?"

"Not here," Dean says, with a shrug and a thin smile. He's edging nearer to the guy and Sam watches with interest, wondering if he's about to manhandle the dude out the door, wondering why he's getting so close.

He's totally taken by surprise when Dean whips out a flask of holy water from under his jacket and splashes it on the intruder. The elderly man claps his hands to his face with a howl as wisps of smoke curl from his skin, and Dean's features twist in disgust in a way that makes Sam think he's never seen the effect of holy water on a demon before. But it doesn't deter him, Dean swings his arm in a large arc up and down emptying the flask on the man.

Sam is stunned, slow to react. It's just so unexpected. He's on his knees with a can of spray paint in his hand and he can't believe Dean recognized this guy as a demon before he did.

But he quickly snaps to when the demon thrusts out an aged hand and pushes Dean backward, sends him hurtling into the next room, the nave of the church, and out of sight. The crash of landing is spectacularly amplified by the acoustics of the room. And that gets Sam moving. He stands up quickly, raises an arm in front of him and feels power from within being directed outward. It warms him all over, like an internal heater switched on, he's getting better at harnessing the energy, making it work for him rather than overwhelm him, controlling the power without slicing his brain. It's become a welcome extension, like an extra pair of hands, he's starting to enjoy it, appreciate it. His lips quirk at the corners as he draws upon the power to drag the intruder inside, force him to take some staggering steps, and shoves him against the wall.

"You're not Lilith," Sam says, low and dangerous, and he isn't sure how he knows it, knows that it's a minion in his grasp and not the commander, but he's does. He tightens his mental grip so that invisible fingers are curling around the man's throat, making him gag a little spurt of black from his mouth. "Where is she?"

He keeps the pressure on for a moment, prevents the man from answering so that he can listen for Dean. He wants to hear cursing, he wants to hear movement, he wants to hear that his brother's okay. And he also wants to know if he's coming this way. Sam doesn't want to be caught using his powers, he needs to know how quickly he has to finish this demon. But there's nothing from the next room, no sound at all of Dean moving and Sam curses mentally because, dammit, his brother shouldn't be doing this job anymore, he's outgunned every time, he shouldn't be mixing it with demons. You've got angels and demons and Sam, all with enhanced abilities, and then you have Dean, just an ordinary guy fighting above his weight division.

"Where is she?" Sam repeats, angry now, because his brother must be hurt and this demon's going to pay.

"Gone," the demon chokes. Doesn't even try with the bluster and bravado, the usual cocky bullshit, aware of the power that's holding him.

Sam's believes the answer, his rough grasp enough to inspire honesty. "Where?"

"I don't know."

The large wooden door bursts open and Ruby stands in the entrance looking wild. She quickly takes in the scene, the partially completed devil's trap on the floor, the demon pinned to the wall and Sam's tight determined face. Sam gives her a small smile, lets her know that he's happy to see her, but can't afford more or he'll lose his focus.

"When is she coming back?" Sam demands, eyes returning to the prisoner.

"She's not."

"Don't lie," he yells. And he feels his mental grasp slipping, power diminishing like a battery run too long, draining too quickly. It's something he needs to work on. From the corner of his eye he sees Ruby raise her hand toward the pinned demon and suddenly he doesn't need to concentrate so hard to keep the demon in place. She's backing him up, and he feels a surge of affection toward her for it.

"I know she's doing this one personally," Sam insists. "When is she coming back?"

"She's not." The demon chokes, a little more dark matter escapes. "She's moved onto other things."

There's an echo of movement in the other room, Dean starting to move around, and Sam is both relieved and aware that he has to bring this matter to a close, exorcise the demon now without further questions. He closes his eyes and lets the power overtake him, channels it into a thread emitting from his hand. He opens to see the demon forced out of the body, black smoke wrenched from the vessel in a cloudy plume and dashed to the floor in burning decisiveness. The old man slides down the wall, his head hits the floor with a loud crack and Sam strides over to see if he's dead, a perfunctory check at the carotid. He's not, there's a pulse and that's all the interest Sam has right now.

He turns and locks eyes with Ruby and just knows she wants to say_ I_ _told you so, I told you Lilith wasn't here._ But she wisely keeps it to herself, perhaps sensing that he might raise his hand to her if she isn't careful. Such a strange relationship they have, where he could destroy her and she could destroy him without any real effort on either part. He finds it rather thrilling.

"Finish the trap," Sam orders, flicking his fingers at the can of spray paint.

Ruby duckbills her ample lips. "How do you expect me to do that?"

"Figure it out," Sam says harshly, but softens his tone when he adds, "If you don't go all the way in you'll be fine. I'll let you out if you get caught."

With a pout she shakes her head and shifts her focus to the design, looking skeptical.

He finds Dean on his feet but bowed, hunched over like it's hard to straighten, one hand clutching tightly onto the back of a pew, other arm wrapped around his chest.

"You okay?"

Dean raises his head and his jaw is tight, teeth gritted against pain. "I was just coming…" He nods vaguely in the direction of the foyer, takes a small step and grunts as it jars his body. "I just need a minute," he concludes with a forced, twisted smile.

The way Dean's holding himself, the delicate way he moves, makes Sam suspect there may be a cracked rib or two. And there's not much to be done about that, other than strap it, take some pills, ride it out. But he's sympathetic. Dean is taking careful breaths and Sam's knows how uncomfortable that is, having your chest scream at every expansion and contraction.

"The demon's gone," Sam reports, drawing slowly closer. "There's no rush."

"It got away?" Dean concludes with a tinge of regret.

"No, I exorcised it."

Dean's brow twitches up in surprise. "So quickly?"

"Yeah." Sam overlooks the skepticism.

There's a pause before Dean drops his chin and says, "Great. That's good."

Dean doesn't believe him. And Sam chokes on his outrage. Does Dean honestly think he doesn't know the difference between a demon escaped and a demon exorcised? He would dearly love to say _you have no idea what I'm capable of_. _I could blow your mind with what I can do._ But he's made his choice and he's sticking with it. Their relationship is so much better with Dean not knowing about his power. He doesn't know how long he can keep it a secret, it was just luck that Dean didn't see him exorcise that demon, but while he can he's keeping the knowledge to himself because once it's out he knows exactly how the relationship will deteriorate.

Dean nods toward the foyer. "You go finish up. I'll be there in a minute."

"How about I'll meet you at the car," Sam counters, trying to keep Dean from finding Ruby in the next room. "It'll only take me a minute to finish."

"I'm not leaving you here by yourself," Dean huffs irritatedly. "Just go finish."

Sam hesitates and in that moment of silence the hiss of paint can be heard coming from the foyer and Dean cocks his head to the side, eyes flash in the direction of the noise. The arm at his chest slides down and around, hand moves to the back of his jeans where his gun is stashed.

"Somebody's in there," he whispers, alert and alarmed.

_Damn. _

"It's just Ruby," Sam says offhandly, like it's not at all suspicious.

Dean stares at him in puzzlement. "Ruby? How did she get here?"

"Car."

Dean mocks a smile. "Thanks, yeah, smart alecs are awesome. What, was she in the neighborhood?"

"I guess," Sam shrugs vaguely.

Dean's face tics in annoyance. "What do you mean you guess? Did you call her? Or did she just magically appear?"

"I called her," Sam admits casually, nodding agreeably.

"When?"

"Earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"Just... earlier."

"What for?"

Sam exhales loudly. "What is the big deal?"

"The big deal is that it's…" Dean's brow furrows, his head jiggers slightly side to side. "... it's weird. You hate her. Or I hate her. Somebody hates her. You couldn't get away from her fast enough earlier." He sags against the pew, butt resting on the cross bar and turns confused eyes on Sam. "I just don't get why you would call her."

"She knows about this stuff. She's trying to prevent Lucifer rising too."

More like she's trying to prevent Lilith succeed but it's essentially the same thing.

Dean digests that. "Okay. Then why didn't you tell me you called her?"

Sam's mind ticks over furiously. Christ, he's getting in deep with half truths and misinformation. "Because it's no big deal."

"So... why didn't you tell me?"

Sam hesitates, grasping for a reasonable explanation and coming up empty. "Because I couldn't expect you to understand," he responds helplessly. "We have a complicated history with Ruby and it's not something... it was hard to explain."

Dean frowns, unpersuaded and unimpressed. "So is that the way we work now? You keep me out of the loop because there are things I couldn't understand?"

"No!" Sam protests indignantly, feeling a sharp stab of guilt because yeah, that is pretty much the way things work. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you I called her. If you want me to tell you every time I call her, I'll tell you."

It's an offer he has no intention of keeping. Dean has never had any idea about how often he and Ruby talk, meet, conjugate, and that's not going to change.

"What do you mean _every time?_ How often do you call her?"

"Not often," Sam cries exasperatedly. "Geez, can we move on?"

Dean shakes his head, a disappointed look in his eye that Sam has seen too often in the last six months. And it makes him mad because Dean expects too much. He's not perfect. He's never been perfect. But Dean expects him to fit that crown. And wears his judgment too openly when he doesn't.

"Yeah okay," Dean sighs wearily, flinches as the movement twinges sore ribs. "Just… tell me stuff. Okay? I'm not… nothing's changed between us. Just because there are things I don't know, doesn't mean you can't tell me things. I want us to be…" Dean trails off, ill equipped for such a plea, struggling for words as he tries not to sound desperate.

"Okay," Sam returns, smoothing over his brother's concerns with a warm smile while secretly despairing at how much things _have _changed. From six years ago to now? _Everything's_ changed. Dean just doesn't know how much. And Sam isn't going to tell him. "Come on. Ruby's got this covered. Let's get out of here." He places a palm on Dean's shoulder, gently pushes him toward the back entrance and feels Dean stiffen at his touch, a distance opening between them and is dismayed by it. He's been trying so hard to make their relationship better second time around, more harmonious. But he can already see it starting to derail.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Sam watches streaks of light wash up the bonnet of the car and disappear over the roof in a mesmerizing rhythm, like watching waves at the ocean it's something to get lost in, and it settles his indignation at being in the _passenger seat_ while his brother drives with awkward movements and stilted breaths, trying not to jar painful ribs.

_It's not personal_, Sam tells himself. It's not supposed to be some pronouncement on trust, that Dean doesn't trust him to drive, it's just Dean being stubborn, trying to prove to the world at large that he's fine, when he isn't.

But understanding it doesn't make it any less annoying.

"So how did you know?" Sam asks suddenly, dropping his propped arm and sitting straighter in the seat. "How did you know the old guy was a demon."

Dean's forehead wrinkles thoughtfully. "I don't know... There was something about him. I wasn't sure but I figured sprinkling the old guy with water wasn't going to kill him if I was wrong."

Sam chuffs. "Lucky break."

It sounds condescending which Sam hadn't intended, but honestly, there's no skill in throwing holy water randomly at people, and Sam is relieved he didn't miss any tells.

Dean glances at him quickly. "Yeah," he agrees. "What do you think that demon was doing at the church?"

"I don't know," Sam sighs. He could have found out if he'd had more time. "Some sort of preparations I guess."

"You think he was looking for the priest? Wanted to work some more mojo on him?"

"Maybe."

Dean pauses before asking, "So what happens now?" He stares impassively ahead, can't look at Sam when his lack of experience is showing. "I mean you just got rid of Lilith, is that the end of it?"

"It wasn't Lilith," Sam says flatly, feeling the burn of another lost opportunity. "It was some other demon, some minion."

"Oh." After a thoughtful moment Dean asks, "How do you know. How do you tell these guys apart?

"I just know. The demon told me Lilith was gone."

"Oh well, if the demon told you…" Dean gives him a reproachful glance.

Sam clicks his tongue. "Sometimes demons tell the truth Dean. It's not all lies all the time."

"Well I wouldn't believe it. If the demon said Lilith is gone then I'd be thinking she's somewhere close by."

Sam gives a wry smile. He remembers a time when they used to follow that principal, believe the opposite of whatever came out of a demon mouth, but things are complicated now, not quite so cut and dry. When he's mentally squeezing the life out of a demon he's inclined to believe they tell the truth. But nothing is absolute. And he'd love to believe that Lilith is nearby.

* * *

"I'm going to the vending machine for a soda, you want anything?"

Dean is propped on the bed with pillows at his back, nursing his aching ribs with a glass of Jack Daniels. "I'm good." He tries to raise his glass in cheers, but winces at the motion.

Sam waits until he is at reception, sure that he is completely alone, before he pulls out his phone and calls Ruby. "Are you trapped?" he quips.

"You jerk," she growls. "How long were you going to make me wait if I was?"

"Just a few hours," Sam mocks, but quickly gets serious. "You still know where Lilith is?"

"No, I don't." Ruby's tone is terse, slow to forgive. "She's moving around a lot. I'd have to find out."

"Then find out," Sam instructs. "I'm pretty sure I could meet you tonight. And I would love to finish off Lilith. If I can kill her quickly Dean needn't know anything about it. Or about what I can do." Almost to himself he adds, "I'm looking forward to being done with these powers."

"Yeah, right," Ruby responds cynically. "There's a bit more going on than just Lilith. I wouldn't be so quick to hang up the six shooter, you're going to need those powers for more than just her."

"We'll see," Sam pushes back, serious in his intentions. Lilith is the grand prize. Once he's dealt with her, he's honestly considering shutting down his ability. But at the same time, there is the nagging thought that there will always be demons…

* * *

"Dean."

Castiel's unexpected appearance inside the room makes Dean jump, and the sudden movement has him clutching his chest and grimacing. "Jesus," he croaks. "Where did you come from?"

Castiel ignores the question, perhaps aware that reminding Dean of what he is and what he can do wouldn't be considered a satisfactory response. "You need to return to the church."

"What church?" Dean asks suspiciously, shifting carefully to regain a comfortable position.

"The one you were last at."

Dean presses his lips together. He hasn't seen Castiel all day, and is irked that apparently he is aware of their movements. "How did you know we were at a church?"

"I was watching."

"Really?" Dean face twists in disgust, imagining Castiel skulking in the shadows. "You're quite the little stalker. How much did you see?"

"I saw everything," Castiel says seriously.

"Did you see the demon?"

"Yes."

"And you decided not to help," Dean ventures sarcastically.

"My help wasn't needed."

Dean gives a small, disbelieving laugh. "My ribs beg to differ."

Castiel doesn't reply, doesn't defend himself, regards Dean pensively and then moves slowly toward him. The closer he gets the more alarmed Dean becomes. "What are you doing?" he asks nervously. The angel doesn't reply, keeps edging closer until he is within arm's reach, and Dean wishes he could move quickly to put some space between them, steels himself to throw a punch if it's required. "Sam will be back in a minute." It's an embarrassingly weak threat.

Castiel reaches out a hand, and Dean flinches, shifts slightly away. Undeterred, the angel lays a light touch on Dean's chest and Dean inhales sharply as a flash of heat flows through him, making him wince for a moment, then suddenly he is free of pain, he notices it immediately, his ribs no longer ache. He take a few deep breaths, to convince himself it's not his imagination, then gazes at Castiel in astonishment, for the first time considering that maybe Castiel is who he says. But at the same time he also searches his mind for what other creature might have the power to heal, the idea of angels still so far-fetched.

Sam opens the door and pauses when he sees Castiel.

"What's going on?" he asks, trying not to act guilty, wondering if the angel knows he was just on the phone to Ruby as he shuts the door.

"You need to return to the church," Castiel urges.

But Sam is looking at his brother, at Dean's shocked expression, staring strangely at Castiel, and he's worried that Castiel has told him something, something that Sam has been trying to keep under wraps. There's a wide range of things it might be.

"Dean?" Sam prompts. "Everything okay?"

Dean looks at him, then looks away. "Yeah," he says unconvincingly, and it frustrates Sam that if Castiel did tell him something Dean would probably keep it to himself, so he cuts through the secrecy and asks Castiel directly, "What did you tell him?"

"That you need to return to the church."

Sam tilts his head. "Is that it?"

"Yes," Castiel replies, and even though the tone is mild Sam can hear the subtext, that he could have said more.

"Is there more?" Dean interjects.

"Yes," Castiel says, at the same time as Sam says, "No."

Dean's eyebrows draw together and Sam amends, "Well yeah, okay, you're missing 6 years, there's a lot more to tell. But not all at once, not now."

A heavy silence falls upon the room. Sam can feel Castiel's disapproval, and he glares defiantly in return, because he didn't cause the situation, he had it dropped in his lap, and how he chooses to deal with it is none of the angels' business. Before Dean can pursue any questions about what else he should know Sam deliberately returns the conversation to its origin. "Why do we need to return to the church?"

"People are gathering," Castiel declares solemnly. "It looks like the seal might be broken tonight."

"Can't you and yours handle it?" Sam exclaims, eyes flicking worriedly toward Dean. They've already encountered a demon today, possibly the first for his brother in this state. It seems a bit much to ask them to re-enter the lion's den, especially when Dean is already injured.

"We need you," Castiel replies simply.

"Why?" Dean enquires, genuinely puzzled. "You're an angel, just go and smite everybody. Why do you need us?"

"We can't be everywhere," the angel explains. "Everyone has to pull their weight."

"But you could be at the church tonight," Sam persists. "Surely you can spare some guys to save a seal?"

"Better than sending in a couple of under-powered schmoes," Dean adds, and Sam finds it interesting that his brother is not so keen to take on the hunt this time, is actually suggesting they may not be the best people for the job. The encounter with a demon has made an impact. Although Sam is a little insulted at being characterized as an _under-powered shmoe_. _Speak for yourself _he thinks.

"Orders need to be followed," Castiel says impassively.

Dean's eyebrows quirk up. "Whose orders? Yours?"

"Heaven's."

"Heaven is _ordering_ us to go to the church?" There's a hard edge to Dean's voice, and Sam can see where the conversation is heading. His brother has always had trouble with authority. The only person who has ever been able to give him an order was Dad, everyone else got a sharp push back.

"Yes." Castiel is oblivious to the tone.

"Okay, you know what?" Dean drops his glass on the side table and rises, puts the bed between him and Castiel. "I think we've been pretty patient with your minimal information and unreasonable requests. I appreciate your help, I mean it was nice of you to, you know…" Dean gestures at his ribs awkwardly, "heal me, or whatever, but maybe it's time we went our separate ways."

The penny drops for Sam. _That's_ why Dean looked so freaked out. Castiel healed him.

Castiel tilts his head, non-plussed, and repeats slowly, "Our separate ways? We have to protect the seals or Lucifer will rise."

"I understand that," Dean says quickly. "We'll stay in the fight. I just think it's better if we call our own shots from now on."

"That's not how it works," the angel proclaims, expression dark.

"It is from now on." Dean sets his mouth firmly, meets the angels glare with flinty eyes, and Sam is struck by how like Dad he looks and sounds.

Castiel shifts his attention to Sam, looking for help, and Sam shrugs helplessly. Heaven took Dean's memories and now he has no idea how indebted he is to them, no idea that if not for Castiel he would be languishing in hell. And it seems just. Serves heaven right for imposing their will in such a heavy handed way. Sam can't think of anything he could say right now that would change his brother's mind, and isn't minded to even if he could.

The angel shakes his head, looking as angry as Sam has ever seen him, then disappears with a slight rustle.

"Nice doing business with you," Dean says wryly, but casts a serious look at Sam. "Are you cool with ditching that guy? I mean, I know I'm playing catch up …"

"No, that's fine." Not only is Sam cool with it, it could work out great. No more oversight and self-righteous judgment. "But I don't think those guys are so easily ditched. Castiel will be back."

Dean scrunches his nose. "Whatever. What's our play from here?"

"We… go to bed?" Sam says uncertainly, hoping that's their play because he wants to be ready when Ruby calls.

"I was thinking we should go to the church," Dean contradicts. "Schmoes or not I want to see what's going on."

Sam gives a disbelieving laugh. "I thought you didn't want to go. You just argued with an angel about it."

"No, you argued. I just didn't like the way he asked."

* * *

When they arrive at the church, the carpark is crowded with cars. Dean parks around the corner and hesitates to get out.

"Maybe we shouldn't be here." He rubs a hand across his mouth. "Maybe we should let the angels finish this one."

Sam gives him a searching look, trying to figure out what's at the heart of the change. He has a sinking feeling that Dean is worried about him, having cold feet about including him in a hunt that involves demons. Whatever Sam says, however much he tries to reassure Dean that he is capable and experienced, Dean isn't able to believe it because he hasn't seen it. It's getting tiring, having to correct his brother's misapprehensions. So rather than tackle the argument head on, he takes lateral aim.

"Yeah, sure, the angels can handle it," Sam agrees. "We'll just watch through the window."

Dean considers for a few seconds, weighing pros and cons.

"We're already here," Sam presses. "We might as well take a look." Dean gives an unwilling nod.

They arm themselves 'just in case', ready for both demon and man, with salt and holy water, guns and knives, then walk around the outside of the church, looking for a good vantage point. The nave windows are too high, and the windows at the entry give only a slim view of what's going on inside.

"How about we sneak in through the back door?" Sam suggests.

Before Dean can say no, Sam is rounding the church, leaving Dean with no choice but to follow. Sam already has his lock pick tools working when Dean catches up.

"Maybe we should think about this," Dean says, mildly anxious. "Work out a plan."

"No, it's fine," Sam reassures. "We'll find a vantage point inside and watch what goes down."

He has no intention of watching. He doesn't think Dean believes him either, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to talk him out of it. In a few seconds the door is open and they steal inside, into the run-down kitchen. The devil's trap on the floor has been broken, part of the design scrubbed off and Sam curses inwardly.

"Trap's broken, " Sam points out. "Why don't you lay salt around the edge of the room."

Dean narrows his eyes. "While you do what?"

"I'm just going to get a little closer to the action. See what's going on."

"Not without me."

Sam huffs. "Could you lay the salt and then catch up?"

"How about y_ou_ lay the salt and I'll take a look," Dean counters.

_For crying out loud! _ Sam silently yells. Does Dean have to countermand every instruction he gives? What are they, joined at the hip?

"Fine," Sam says peevishly, not wanting to waste time on the argument. "We'll do it together."

They roughly drop salt in an unbroken line, working to speed rather than neatness, then move slowly toward the nave of the church. They crack open a door and peer in. Pastor Steve is at the pulpit and there are about 50 men, dressed in the garb of various denominations, sitting in the pews.

"I know you've seen the signs," Pastor Steve says, and his voice carries easily thanks to the acoustics in the hall. "You know what it means, we've all read the bible enough times to know the signs of the apocalypse."

There are acknowledging murmurs in reply.

"Where are the angels?" Dean whispers.

Sam shrugs. Seems like those guys are never in the right place at the right time.

"We have to take our service to the next level," Steve preaches. "Talk isn't enough anymore, we have to be prepared to get our hands dirty. Our love of God, our love of humanity, _requires_ us to do what's right, no matter how difficult."

Pastor Steve reaches under the pulpit and pulls something out, Sam sees a glint of metal, but it's kept low and hidden. Sam's thinking either a gun or knife. As the pastor steps down and makes his way into the audience, Sam instructs his brother, "Stay here."

"What?" Dean replies, incredulous.

Sam slips quietly into the church hall, and hears Dean's footfalls right behind him. He's not really surprised, but he despairs a little at his brother's inability to take a suggestion because he only wanted to keep him out of harm's way.

Sam pulls his gun from his waistband, points it in the direction of the pastor, and yells, "Stop." Pastor Steve does, looks at him in surprise. Sam sees recognition in his eyes. "Whatever you're about to do, don't do it," Sam instructs. "Put the weapon down."

"What are you doing here?" Steve asks, then decides he doesn't care what he's doing there, and says, "You need to go. This doesn't involve you."

"It does involve us," Sam replies. "We can help."

Pastor Steve takes a small step, testing Sam. His eyes are on one man in particular, sitting quietly in a pew, a middle aged man greying at the temples, in Catholic garb.

Sam flicks off the safety. "I mean it," he threatens. "You are about to make a mistake of apocalyptic proportion, put your weapon down, and we can talk about it."

Steve's target stands up, with his hands meekly raised, then turns to Sam and blinks a shutter of black. "I am so glad you're here," the demon says, and Sam is thrown backward, pinned against the wall, breath knocked out of him. He takes a few seconds to try to summon his power, see if he can exorcise the demon from the awkward position, without being able to move, but finds he can't direct the energy without the use of his arm. He resolves to work on it with Ruby.

"You okay," Dean says out of the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes off the demon.

"Yeah," Sam replies, frustrated, straining against the holding force and gaining no traction.

"Lets all just settle down," Dean commands, even though the room is unnaturally still, visitors frozen by uncertainty, unsure if they are witnessing a planned performance. And Dean is at a loss how to proceed. If he makes a move toward the demon he figures he's going to suffer the same treatment as Sam. There's a phantom twinge in his ribs that makes him hesitate, he doesn't want to suffer that fate again.

When Pastor Steve takes another step, bringing him almost within reach of the demon, Dean fires into the air. "You take one more step and the next one is in your leg."

Steve looks at him in annoyance, motions toward the demon. "Do you understand what is going on here? Do you know what that is?"

"I know," Dean replies simply.

"Do you, Dean?" the demon asks, cocking his head in mock sympathy. "I know you've got some issues with your melon. I'm delighted you know what I am."

The Pastor takes advantage of the demon's diverted attention to draw back his arm and thrust a knife toward the greying priest's chest, but before the blow lands the demon flicks his wrist and pushes the priest to the floor, slides him a couple of feet away. "I'll get to you champ," he coos. "You're a credit to your kind. I just need to have a few words with Dean first."

The demon moves toward Dean, makes his way through an empty pew. Dean very slowly, as imperceptibly as possible, reaches a hand inside his jacket, fingers the flask of holy water, ready to pull it out when the demon is close.

"You don't need that," the demon reprimands, and Dean is pushed backward and pinned to the wall, in the same manner as Sam only a couple of feet away. "We're just going to talk."

"I'm not going to talk." Dean utters it as a threat, eyes blazing.

"You don't need to," the demon replies. "I just want to help you out, fill in a few blank spots."

Sam goes cold. The demon is going to reveal things he has been trying to keep under wraps, and even though Dean has already indicated he doesn't believe anything a demon might say, sowing seeds is going to have an effect, cause problems, he just knows it.

"Go to hell," Dean snarls, then adds derisively, "I hear it's delightful."

Sam winces.

"You should know," the demon chuckles. "You had a lovely time down there. Did Sam tell you about it?"

Dean doesn't respond but the muscles in his jaw tic. Sam renews his efforts to break the hold, aching to shut the demon up.

"Of course, Sam is one of us now. He's our brightest star," the demon crows. "You should see what he can do."

Suddenly, Sam is released from the hold, stumbles a little away from the wall then catches his balance. In his anger he brings his arm up to exorcise the demon but just as quickly sense prevails and he lowers it. He does not want to use his power in front of Dean. It was not well received the first time around, and there is no reason to believe it would be better received now. Instead, he starts reciting the latin exorcism.

"No, no, no," the demon yells impatiently, and tosses Sam against the wall, hard enough to make him crumple to the ground, but not to do any damage, just making a point. "You know what I want. Show your brother what you can do, or I start mauling priests. Or maybe," he sneers, "I start mauling Dean. Give him a trip down memory lane."

Sam is conflicted. He picks himself up very slowly, pretending to be more hurt than he is, stalling for time and hoping for a miraculous intervention from Ruby or the angels. When Dean gives a yelp, and bloods wells in his shirt at the shoulder, Sam unwillingly raises his arm, and finds it bizarre that the demon is begging to be exorcised. And he is amazed that the seal seems to have been forgotten for the moment, that messing with the Winchesters is more of a priority.

"Are you hoping your demon wife will save the day?" the demon needles. "Because I have it on good authority she is out seeking bigger fish. Have you told Dean how close you and Ruby are? What she does for you?" He gives Dean a theatrical wink. "They are friends with benefits."

Sam mentally squeezes, closes his eyes and lets power flow through. He has to stop the chatter. The demon starts choking, black spurts cough out of the mouth and Dean's eyes go wide with horror, gaze darts between Sam and the demon, trying to make sense of what he is seeing.

Suddenly Castiel is there. Just appears out of nowhere with barely a sound, right beside the demon. He puts a palm on the demon head and sends the evil back to hell with a flash of light and a crack of sound. As grateful as Sam is for the save he mentally curses the angel for his timing. Five minutes sooner and Dean would be none the wiser about Sam's power. Now it's something they're going to have to discuss, Sam is going to have to explain. He wonders if the delay was deliberate, if the angels are still trying to manipulate.

Whatever Dean is thinking, he acts quickly, mind on the job, and yells, "Everyone into the kitchen." He points to the door, "Through here. Into the kitchen. Now."

There's five minutes of pandemonium. The priests don't move fast enough, too dignified to run like children, and there's another demon among them, which makes sense, all that goading of Sam to use his powers was never intended to result in an exorcism, it was supposed to be a show for Dean that would be cut short by the partner.

Priests are killed. Heads are twisted and necks snap. In the confusion Sam can't figure out which body is being inhabited, where the other demon is, and he stays close to Castiel, while Dean herds the increasingly frightened men in the direction of the kitchen, yelling at them not to disturb the salt on the floor.

Pastor Steve is on his feet, knife threateningly in his hand, and he has eyes on someone, looking at him with disgust and terror. The ease with which he seems to identify the demons makes Sam wonder if he was tipped off beforehand about who to look out for. With Castiel and Sam only a few feet away, the pastor plunges his knife into the chest of the target, and for a moment the possessed man regards the pastor with amusement. "Nicely done," he congratulates, and the mouth opens, pouring black smoke into the air which flys in formation into the entry way and under the front door.

The pastor looks nauseous, pale and sweating, as the man he just knifed topples to the floor. "I did it," he chokes, when Sam and Castiel are at his side. "I struck a blow for the righteous and killed that minion of evil."

"No, you didn't," Sam says dejectedly, and can't help but feel a little sorry for the priest, a complete amateur who's been deluded into not only acting against his beliefs (thou shalt not kill) but unwittingly acting against his own interests, furthering the plans of hell. Sam looks around the room and counts five bodies on the floor and realizes with dismay that the seal has been broken.


	8. Chapter 8

A little bit of Dean POV.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Dean is plagued by nightmares. Every time he closes his eyes something unpleasant is waiting for him.

He wakes in a panic, gasping, from a dream that had Dad yelling at him to kill Sam. _Kill him!_ The words reverberate in his head as he bolts upright and is confused by the complete darkness. His racing heart starts to slow when he realizes it was his imagination being cruel and he drops his head in his hands, shaken by how real it seemed and takes a few deep breaths.

His shoulder twinges with the burn and pull of five stitches that Sam dropped in a few hours earlier, damage inflicted by the demon at the church. He winces, not just at the physical pain, but at the reminder of the conversation that attached to the stitching, when Sam revealed he had psychic powers, initially premonitions of people dying, which morphed into an ability to exorcise demons with his mind.

Christ Almighty! Dean feels the sense of dismay all over again. _Psychic powers_! How is he supposed to deal with that? If he hadn't seen it for himself he would think it was a monumental joke.

He tried to play it cool. He kept saying to himself, _it's still Sam._ But the Sam he knew never had psychic powers, not even a hint. And not for the first time, he wishes he could talk to Dad and get a feel for how he should handle it.

He reaches for the whiskey on the bedside table and takes a long gulp. It doesn't help. It doesn't soothe him or offer any answers. He glances at the digital clock and sees that it's just after 2.30 in the morning. He knows he won't be able to get back to sleep, not with _Kill him!_ still running through his brain. He doesn't really want to try, in case the same nightmare is waiting, he can't go through it again.

He rolls his legs off the bed and sits on the edge for a minute, trying to quiet his thoughts, trying to push out all the negatives and unknowns and focus on the positive. But he's never been very good at it.

He gazes in Sam's direction, and with eyes adjusted to the dark sees that his brother is still. Then he squints a little, because the shape in the bed doesn't look right, enough so that it prompts him to take the few steps to his brother's bed, where he can see only pillows. He turns on the bedside lamp, blinks away the pain of sudden light and throws off the covers to confirm that it is _only_ pillows in the bed, no Sam, and it looks like the pillows were deliberately placed to resemble a sleeping form.

He walks to the bathroom, turns on the light, and then gets alarmed because he is alone in the motel room. He quickly moves to the front window, shifts the curtain to find his car still parked outside. His eyes search the room and alight on Sam's duffel, his laptop, and Dean finds that encouraging but baffling. Where would Sam be at 2.30 in the morning? His mind jumps to sinister conclusions, Sam being kidnapped or attacked, but the arranged pillows doesn't fit. It leads to the unwelcome theory that Sam has gone out willingly. In the middle of the night.

Dean mutters an expletive. Although Sam leaving under his own steam is a much better proposition than Sam being abducted, it is unsettling, and after what happened in the church earlier he is already unsettled, unsure about his brother and about their relationship. He doesn't know if Sam leaving in the middle of the night is something he commonly does or if it's something to worry about. He just doesn't know Sam anymore.

He sets down heavily on his bed, not sure what to do, feeling a little like a parent waiting up after the prom. He absently turns on the tv, flicks unseeingly through the channels, and tries to come up with reasons why Sam would be out at 2.30am, and where he went without a car.

His mind wanders to the demon taunts. Stuff about Ruby, and about Sam working for them. It's crap, demons flat-out lie, but to what end? Why was the demon so keen for him to hear it? Could there be a nugget of truth? He shakes his head sharply, determined not to waste time on demon motives, and returns his thoughts to Sam, and where he might be.

Fifteen minutes later Dean remembers his cell phone. He curses himself for not thinking of it sooner and pads over to his jacket to retrieve it. He returns to the bed examining the buttons, trying to figure out how it works and finds it incredibly complicated! He is not in the right frame of mind for trial and error.

He doesn't know Sam's cell phone number but trusts it is somewhere in the phone. He presses buttons, gets progressively frustrated when he can't find what he wants, and when the word _Bobby_ appears on the screen he hesitates. He strokes his mouth thoughtfully and seriously considers calling the old guy but after a few moments he decides that's a job for another time and continues scrolling. He really hopes he didn't put Sam's number in the phone with some bogus name, like Princess or Petunia, because he's just the sort to do that and it's going to be a real pain in the ass figuring out his sense of humor six years down the track.

He's relieved when the name Sam pops up onscreen, and he presses the call button. It goes straight to voicemail.

"Uh, hi. It's 2.30 in the morning and I'm looking at an empty bed. Where are you? Call me back or I'm going to assume you're dead."

Dean ends the call then holds the phone in his hand, not wanting to put it down in case he misses the return. His attention moves lazily to the television but his eyes keep flicking to the small screen. Ten minutes later there is a twittering noise, and he fumbles the phone his nerves are so taut. He puts the phone to his ear and using his most nonchalant tone says "Hey." There is nothing, no-one on the other end and he has a moment of panic until he notices onscreen the words, _Getting food. Want anything?_

Dean stares at the message for a while. He's thrilled that his brother is okay, but uneasy. It just seems weird for Sam to be out at this time, whatever the reason. He doesn't know how to reply to the text and isn't in the mood to figure it out.

Fifteen minutes later the key turns in the lock and Sam walks in with a large coke and a bag of food that looks like it came from a gas station.

"Hey, you're still up," Sam says breezily. "You didn't reply to my text so I got you some chips and a coke, just in case."

"Where have you been," Dean asks roughly.

"Getting food. Didn't you get my text?"

"Food, at 3 in the morning?"

Sam's tone turns defensive. "Yeah. I was starving. We didn't have dinner last night, so I went to get something."

"And you arranged the pillows to look like you were sleeping?"

"Well, yeah. I didn't want to wake you and tell you I was going. And I didn't want you to worry if you woke up and looked over."

"And you decided not to take the car?"

"Yeah, I walked. I thought the car would be too loud."

Dean chuckles wryly, shakes his head in disbelief. "That's incredibly considerate."

"I guess," Sam replies cautiously.

"More considerate than I've ever known you to be."

Sam's lips thin. "Well that's how I roll now."

Dean is unimpressed by the glibness, his expression hardens. "Were you with anyone?"

"Like who?"

"Well, Ruby seems to keep popping up. Do you and her have something going on?"

"No!" Sam is vehement, appears insulted.

They stare at each other for a moment, challenge in their eyes. Dean's gut is telling him that Sam is lying, or at least not telling the whole truth, and he wishes he could call Sam on it. Was a time that he would do it without hesitation, but he's not as comfortable with this version of his brother, not as certain of his footing. And he really isn't sure what to accuse his brother of.

"Eat some chips," Sam says tersely, and throws the bag at Dean.

"You know what?" Dean drops the caught snack, rises from the bed, moves to where his jacket is slung over a chair and shrugs it on. "That's a great idea."

Sam frowns. Obviously Dean isn't talking about eating chips. "What? What are you doing?"

"I'm going out at 3 in the morning." He shrugs. "It's what all the kids are doing."

"Where are you going?"

"Cruising. Drinking. Looking for fun."

Sam's frown deepens into disbelief. "It's 3 in the morning. Nothing's open. Unless you want to drink at a gas station."

Dean upturns his palms. "What can I say? I like a challenge. I'll be back soon."

Sam is left open-mouthed as Dean slams the door behind him.

* * *

Dean drives, feeling sorry for himself. He would love to find a bar, drown his sorrows, maybe keep some company, but Sam's right, nothing is open at 3am in a small town. It's another thing to add to his list of grievances.

"Dean."

Dean jumps at Castiel's voice, suddenly sitting next to him in the passenger seat. "What is wrong with you?" he growls with heart pounding. "Stop appearing from nowhere. Are you deliberately trying to catch me without Sam around?"

"Yes," Castiel replies impassively.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the honesty. "Okay. Why?"

"I want to answer your questions."

Dean's mouth draws tight in annoyance. "What questions? Did I say a silent prayer or something because I don't remember asking any questions."

"I can answer your questions Dean, but I can't offer information."

Dean lets out a suffering breath. "What did I do to deserve this?" he mutters, rolls his eyes, then flicks a gaze toward Castiel. "Questions about what? Give me a hint here."

"About your amnesia."

"What about my amnesia?"

"Ask me if I can return your memories."

Dean's eyes widen, mouth slacks open. "Can you? Return the memories?"

"Yes." Castiel pauses for a beat, then continues, "But I have been instructed not to."

"Instructed by who?"

Dean honestly expects Castiel to say Sam and is pleasantly surprised when the answer is "Heaven." And that makes more sense, as if Castiel would take instructions from Sam. But then he knits his brows. "Why does heaven care if I have memories?"

"You are important to Heaven's cause, you have a role to play in averting the apocalypse, but your memories were weighing you down, to the point where you almost couldn't function."

"What memories am I missing?" Dean exclaims, confused, unable to imagine what could be so terrible. Dad dying?

"You went to hell."

Dean does a long blink, pulls the car to the side of the road and turns to face the angel. "Come again?"

"You sold your soul for Sam's life. You made a deal with a demon, and were given one year to live, then you went to hell."

Dean turns the idea over in his mind with a slow shake of his head. "That is the most ridiculous thing..." But he remembers the demon at the church saying something similar, about visiting hell. And he has a sick feeling that if Sam's life were in danger he might just do something that stupid.

"It's the truth." Castiel casts his eyes down.

"I'm pretty sure Sam would have mentioned…" Dean says weakly, then stops and considers. It sounds like something Sam _should_ have told him, if it's true, but Sam is following some drawn out process of dropping bombshells. He's got some bee in his bonnet about revealing too much too quickly, and maybe this is still waiting in the wings. He thinks about it for a few minutes, then pulls out his phone. He looks at the time, sees that its after 3.30am, and calls anyway.

"Hey Sam it's me. Did I go to hell?"

"What? That's just… What?" Sam is scrambling, clearly on the back foot. And it's not because he's just been woken, Dean can tell from his voice that he's still up. His discomposure is caused by something else. And it's telling, as good as an admission. "Who would… Who told you that?"

"Castiel."

"Is he there with you now?"

"Yeah."

"Put him on the phone."

Dean passes the cell phone to Castiel who presses the disconnect button without putting it to his ear. Dean can imagine how pissed Sam must be at getting cut off, but is too caught up in the idea of _going to hell_ to relish Sam's annoyance. He's stunned, speechless.

"There is a lot Sam isn't telling you," Castiel offers gently. "He's trying to protect you. But to get a complete picture of who you are, you need to know everything. Knowing and remembering are two different things. And if you want the memories back, you need to know what's waiting."

Dean's mind whirls. He hates his incomplete memory. He's tired of being surprised. And he's sick of the bombshells. He wishes Sam had got all the bombshells out of the way upfront, because now he doesn't know what else might be waiting, and he feels like a fool for not knowing. He's amazed that his brain could just shut that stuff down. How can you lock down something as momentous as going to hell?

Without looking at Castiel, Dean asks quietly, "Do you think I should get the memories back?"

Castiel gives a little sigh. "I can't answer that," he finally replies. "I just wanted you to know that I could restore them. And that restoring them would have repercussions."

Dean frowns. "What repercussions?"

"You would have to deal with crushing memories again. And you didn't do so well last time."

Dean sniffs, rubs his eyes, and wonders why life is so hard. His strong reaction is to say _Do it, Give me the memories back_, but he's pretty sure he needs to think it through. He's not thrilled by the prospect of _crushing memories_.

"Okay. I'll think about it."

When he looks up Castiel is gone. Dean is relieved to be alone, and stays sitting in the car on the side of the road for another 20 minutes, thinking, considering, and despairing. Eventually, heavy hearted, with no idea what he should do, he starts the car and drives back to the motel.

* * *

A few days later Dean is in a county library looking at newspapers on microfiche, Sam is within sight a few feet away, looking through historical records. Their relationship isn't great. They're both keeping secrets. Dean hasn't told Sam that Castiel could restore his memories. And Sam is just generally acting suspiciously, ending phone calls quickly, going on mysterious errands, Dean has no idea what's going on. If he's meeting with Ruby, Dean doesn't understand why he can't be honest about it. But they're both trying to act as if nothing is wrong. They're working on a case, involving an angry spirit, doing some research.

Dean is distracted. He can't finish reading a sentence without his mind wandering. He gets up, sees Sam gaze at him questioningly, and motions his head toward the restroom. Sam nods and tips his head back down. When Dean is out of eyesight he pulls out his phone, scrolls through the numbers and dials.

"Hey Bobby." Dean's voice is gruff, tone unsure.

"Dean. It's good to hear from you. How you doing?" There is such warmth in Bobby's voice that it makes Dean grimace, it's over-familiar. "Wait a minute, is this a personal call or are you idgits in trouble?"

"No, uh, no trouble, I just thought maybe we should talk."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, we probably should," Bobby agrees solemnly.

When Dean is quiet, searching for the right words, it's Bobby who breaks the silence, "Listen Dean, I know the last time we were together it ended badly, between me and your Dad. And I am more sorry than I can tell you, for the things I said and did that day. I was a damn fool. One of my greatest regrets is that I never made it right with John, but I would really like to make it right with you. I hope you can forgive me."

Dean notices and appreciates that Bobby is jumping himself back 6 years to the last meeting Dean remembers. And he also appreciates that Bobby isn't trying to gloss over it, tell him that it's water under the bridge or that they've moved past it, because Dean has a real problem with the things that were said that day. He doesn't want to hold a grudge against Bobby, he's been good to them over the years (both before and after his memory kicks in), but he can't get past his resentment and he knows he should, that he needs to. He feels greatly relieved that Bobby is taking responsibility for what was said, that they don't have to argue about who was right or who was wrong, that he isn't trying to shoulder part of the blame onto John (even though rightly, that's where part of the blame should lay). Dean feels his stress level abate, girded for an unpleasant conversation that Bobby is making easy.

"I…" Dean isn't sure how to respond. He can't forgive Bobby on a dime, he still has his lingering resentment, but he's feeling warmer toward the guy than he was a minute ago. "I hope I can forgive you too. I certainly appreciate the apology. I know you've been good to us these last few years. And I'm real grateful for the way you've looked out for Sam."

"I'm always happy to look out for Sam," Bobby replies, and adds quietly, "You too Dean."

Dean feels a little awkward at that.

"So, what's going on with you?" Bobby says brightly, eager to change the conversation. " What's it like living in the future?"

Dean sniffs. "Less fun than you would think."

"I'll bet. Any of the memories coming back?"

"No."

"Well that's…" Bobby pauses, "good and bad I guess."

"I guess." Dean feels uncomfortable making small talk, especially about personal matters. "We're working on some spirit thing now, some job Sam found. I think he's trying to find me something easy, I don't know."

"Nothing easy about a spirit."

"Yeah." Dean lets out a breath. "Okay, well it's been good talking to you."

"You too, Dean. I'm real glad you called."

Dean returns to where his brother sits, gives him a smile. He has no idea how long they're going to play this game, of being together in body but not in mind. But he'll play the game as long as he has to. He's pretty sure everything is going to come out eventually, whether he gets the memories restored or not, all the secrets will be revealed, if not by Sam then by that interfering pain Castiel. And they will deal with it. Things will be rocky for a while and they will deal with it. Because that's the way its always worked in their family, and it doesn't look like anything has changed in the last six years.


	9. Chapter 9

No-one was happy about ending the story at the last chapter, including me, so let's continue the ride a little longer.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Sam combs fingers through his hair and exhales a noisy breath. Driving solo, with the driver window down, he's feeling claustrophic, like the walls are closing in. Two weeks into amnesia Dean still doesn't know that Ruby is a demon. He's surmised that Sam and Ruby are spending time together (although Sam hasn't admitted to it), assumed that the relationship is sexual, but somehow it hasn't been revealed to him that Ruby is a demon, and Sam knows it's only a matter of time, Bobby will tell him, or Castiel will tell him, or maybe even Ruby herself. And the longer it goes unknown, the more frantic Sam becomes to finish Lilith, to finish that quest before his brother knows anything about it. He's chasing her around the country, following every lead Ruby gives him, covering it with hunts as best he can. He's meeting with Ruby more than he ever has in the past, every few days, practicing his skills, dosing up with demon blood, ready, _so ready_, for a confrontation with Lilith. And it eludes him, he's gets frustratingly close to catching up with her and then she's gone. He feels exhausted, both mentally and physically, trying to live two lives and not have them catch up to each other.

Meanwhile, Dean is unraveling. He's sliding back into the old habit of relying too heavily on alcohol, using it as a crutch to get him through the day. And Sam cares, he really does, it concerns him to see his brother struggling, but he can't focus on it right now, he can't be distracted from his primary focus of killing Lilith and ending the apocalypse. He's frustrated that the angel experiment, of relieving Dean of the memories, hasn't worked. It's actually made things worse, because not only is Dean as dysfunctional as ever, now he's missing skills and knowledge. He really isn't coping without Dad. He doesn't mention it too often, but Sam can tell he's having trouble dealing with the sudden loss, and the lack of support. It was too jarring a break, he wasn't mentally prepared and he can't adjust to the new reality.

He pilots the Impala into the motel parking lot, feeling strong from the demon blood he just ingested, all powerful, and knows he has to hide it. He has food supplies to cover the meeting with Ruby but it's getting harder and harder to explain the extended absences. He's starting to think he should just tell Dean when he's meeting with Ruby, it's what Dean suspects anyway.

Sam walks through the motel room door and stops when he sees Bobby sitting in an armchair, half-drunk beer resting on his knee.

"Hey," Sam greets in surprise, gives his brother an inquiring look, silently asking if he knew Bobby was coming.

Dean doesn't meet his gaze, keeps his eyes firmly averted, and alarm bells ring.

"Hey," Bobby returns, friendly enough. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I might drop by, see how you boys are doing."

"Huh." Sam continues into the room, places the grocery bags he's carrying onto a bench in the mini-kitchen. He feels the tension in the room, and can only guess at what was discussed before he arrived. "I think we're doing okay. Considering. Right Dean?"

Dean is quiet, looks like he's working up to something, and Sam can read the body language, knows whatever is coming is going to be unpleasant.

"I know what you've been doing." Dean's voice is low and dangerous. "I know Ruby is a demon."

Sam raises his eyebrows, playing surprised, while cursing inwardly. "Is that right?"

It's funny that he was only just musing on this subject on the drive over, Dean discovering the truth about Ruby. If he'd known the jig was already up he might have kept driving.

"I know you've been…" Dean pauses, takes a swig of beer and looks so desperately unhappy that it dawns on Sam, the reason for Dean's slide back into alcohol, is in part because of him, of what he's been doing with Ruby, the secrecy. It's not the whole reason, there's a lot more going on than just that, but it's a factor. And Sam has a stab of guilt.

With eyes on Bobby, Sam asks, "What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything," Bobby defends mildly. "He called me." A wan smile pulls at Bobby's lips as he says, "You know that part of hunting is investigation, right?"

Sam rolls his eyes. _Great_. Dean followed him. Ironic, given it was how Dean found out about Ruby the first time around. Sam honestly didn't expect it of his brother in his current state, didn't expect him to be so suspicious or sneaky. He keeps thinking of Dean as naïve without his memories, and he's not, it's a foolish underestimation. Now he's wondering what exactly his brother saw, and says pre-emptively, "Look Dean, we've been down this road before. I know how you feel…"

"You have no idea," Dean interrupts emphatically. "You have no idea, or you wouldn't be doing it. I saw you…" he shakes his head, swallows. "I saw you drink her blood."

Bobby looks alarmed, eyes go wide. "You sure about that?"

Dean tilts his chin in Bobby's direction and says quietly, "I'm sure."

Sam chuckles, a nervous reaction to being trapped. It's worse than he thought. He anticipated a clash about practicing his skills, but Dean didn't just catch him with Ruby, he really _caught_ him, saw _everything_.

Deny? Admit? He has no idea how to minimize the damage.

"It's not what you think," he offers.

Dean's eyes narrow and he repeats slowly, "You drank her blood." The muscles in his jaw tic. "Tell me how I misunderstood that."

Sam purses his lips, anger welling. He knew this would be Dean's reaction, it's exactly why he's been meeting Ruby in secret, what he's been trying to avoid. Dean doesn't even know the full story, doesn't know that the demon blood enhances his powers, which is to their _benefit_, but already he's passed judgment. There is nothing he can say that will placate his brother, no argument he can make that Dean will find reasonable. So he goes on the offensive.

"Why is Bobby here? Did you tell him to come?"

Dean juts his jaw. "Don't change the subject."

"You couldn't discuss this with me in private? I don't appreciate being outnumbered. We could have worked this out."

"I doubt it," Dean retorts, but gives Bobby an apologetic look. "I asked Bobby to come because he knows more about what's going on than I do. I wanted him here so you couldn't mislead me, tell me things that I have no idea of knowing are true or not."

"When have I done that?" Sam exclaims, outraged, amid a certainty that whatever misleading he might have done was to protect Dean, he was trying to be sensitive. "You trust him more than me? A week ago you couldn't stand him. I'm your brother. I know what I'm doing. You should trust _me, _before anyone else."

"Sam." Dean says the word quietly, with a plea for understanding. "Ruby is a demon…"

"I know what she is," Sam fires back sharply. "She is an opportunity to win a war. You have never understood that. You are so blinded by black and white. She is a short-cut, and it is to _our advantage_ to use her." Dean's expression is closed, unmoved, and Sam clicks his tongue impatiently. "But there's no use talking to you about it. You won't listen." He shifts his gaze to Bobby, pleads, "Tell him. Tell him that we need to use every resource we have available to prevent the _apocalypse_?"

Bobby gives Sam an even look, draws in a breath and says slowly, "You need to think real hard about what you're doing. I would hate for you to find yourself on the wrong side."

Sam grits his teeth, hands ball into fists. Typical for Bobby to throw his weight behind Dean. A strained silence descends. Sam considers whether to pursue his argument, but quickly decides it's a lost cause, both of these men are too fixed in their views to contemplate something unconventional. He snatches up the keys that he just placed on the counter and storms out, needing space.

He drives for 15 minutes then pulls into a Walmart carpark, leaves the keys under the seat, texts Dean the location (because even he isn't heartless enough to deprive his brother of his most prized possession), and steals another car nearby. He drives for 2 hours, into the next state, replaying in his head, over and over, what went down and how he could have handled it differently. And how he should handle things from here. He comes to the conclusion that he should stay away from his brother for a while, until he has finished with Lilith. Once he has dispensed with Lilith he can say sayonara to Ruby and return cap in hand to Dean. And Dean will forgive him. Dean always does.

* * *

Dean goes jogging at 5 in the morning. He hasn't done it in weeks, without Dad acting as drill sergeant he's slackened off. But he needs some fresh air and movement. He tried drowning his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey overnight and that didn't help, didn't give him any ideas on how to deal with Sam, so he's hoping some physical exertion will clear his head and give him a new perspective.

It's before dawn and cold. He wears sweatpants and a t-shirt and the chill in the air motivates him to move faster. He winds his way through neighboring streets, pays minor attention to the passing houses, wonders idly about the people living inside and if their lives are as complicated as his. He gets completely lost, which is good, it makes him run further, it's nearly two hours later when the motel finally comes into sight. He slows to a walk and breathes deeply as he approaches, hands on hips, working to get his respiration back to normal.

As he nears the room he sees a man standing next to his car, waiting. Dean doesn't recognize the guy; older, balding, solid, well dressed, looks a bit like a lawyer. His pace decreases and he's immediately on the alert. He can't enter the room without passing the man and sizes him up from head to toe, judging if he could take him in a fight, figures he could if it came to it.

"Hi Dean," the man greets him warmly, voice like Brando. "Bobby said you would be along, and here you are."

A little tension leaves Dean at the thought that Bobby has vetted him. "Here I am," Dean returns with a taut smile.

"I heard that you and Sam had gone your separate ways…" the man begins.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. Sam only left yesterday. And he would hardly call it going their separate ways. He wonders who this guy is, that he knows already that Sam left. One of Bobby's friends? "Boy, are you misinformed," Dean cuts in brusquely.

"No, it's fine," the man raises a hand dismissively. "I know how these things work. You fight, Sam flounces off, you make up. I know Sam will be back. But I wanted to return something to you." He slowly and carefully reaches behind his back and pulls from his waistband a large hunting knife. It seems incongruous, a brutal weapon being produced from nice clothing, it makes Dean wonder anew _who is this guy?_ "You gave this to me a few weeks back. I thought you might need it if you don't have Sam watching your back. Seeing as how it kills demons."

Dean tilts his head, clarifies, "The _knife_ kills demons?"

"Of course." The man stares at him intently, like it's something he should know, and Dean wonders why he doesn't, why Sam wouldn't mention a demon killing knife, and comes to the conclusion that Sam would have, the guy must be deluded.

"Right. Yeah," Dean says noncommittally.

The man moves cautiously toward him, with the knife passively laid across his palm, offering it up. Dean raises a halting hand, alarmed at being approached by a stranger with a knife, no matter how submissive the demeanor. "Hold up. Let me grab the car keys and we can put it in the trunk." He edges toward the motel room door, feeling vulnerable without a weapon.

"Just take it, Dean," the man says impatiently, still approaching. "I need to get going."

"Stop," Dean growls, irritated that he doesn't know if the guy is friend or foe. "Bobby!" he calls, kinda surprised the old guy hasn't ventured out already, heard the voices. Suddenly it occurs to him that if Bobby greeted the man at the door, the stranger would be waiting inside, or Bobby would be waiting outside with him. Bobby wouldn't allow Dean to encounter a stranger solo, he's too protective.

With the man almost upon him, Dean appreciates that he is in danger, but there is little opportunity for defense. He snatches for the knife in the man's palm, but his hand is blocked and eyes flit to black as the stranger slides the hilt into his grip and thrusts the blade into Dean's chest, up under his ribs.

The blow knocks the breath out of Dean, he doubles at the waist, gulping in air, and squeezes his eyes tight against a hot flash of pain that sweeps him from head to toe.

"We used to do this all day," Alistair utters into his ear. "I can't tell you how much I've missed it."

Dean grasps the man's jacket lapels with both hands, ostensibly to push the man away, but secretly to keep himself upright because as he sinks lower the knife penetrates deeper, and he can feel his knees about to give way.

"When I heard you were solo, I had to come," the demon sneers. "And get reacquainted. It hurts that I've been expunged from your memory, the angels took away the best part."

He extracts the knife with a sharp pull back of his arm and Dean collapses heavily to the ground with a choked cry, clutching his chest. He drags himself a few feet toward the door, intent upon reaching the safety of the motel room.

Alistair watches for a moment, allows him to make some progress. His amusement turns to vexation when Castiel appears.

"What are you, his lap dog?" Alistair taunts, shoulders slump a little at the premature end to his entertainment. "Don't you have better things to do with your time than keep an eye on this human?"

Castiel doesn't dignify a reply, narrows his eyes menacingly, ready to do battle.

"Fine. Have him," the demon accedes ungraciously. "Consider yourself lucky that I have bigger fish to fry. But I'm keeping the knife,"and he disappears before he can be challenged.

Bobby stumbles from the motel room, goose egg on his temple from being manhandled by the demon. He quickly takes in the scene, drops the flask of holy water he had grabbed for protection and races to where Dean lays. He shifts the young hunter onto his back and exhales in dismay at the gaping wound. Castiel is standing protectively a few steps away, which makes Bobby nervous, unsure if he is sensing the demon still nearby. He gives the angel a few seconds to come and help and when he doesn't, figures it's up to him to render aid and quickly shucks off his flannel shirt and presses it hard over Dean's injury, trying to staunch the alarming flow of blood.

Dean raises a hand and weakly grips Bobby shirt, tries to say something but can't get words past the gasping and choking. _ No way_, Bobby thinks. _We're not doing last words_. "You're alright, son," he reassures, then raises his voice a little to address the angel. "Little help."

The angel shifts his focus to Bobby, fury in his eyes. "I should have been here," he remarks in disgust, berating himself.

"Nobody's perfect," Bobby says quickly, no time for recriminations. "Could you come and heal Dean before he expires on me?"

Castiel kneels beside the injured man, places a hand on his chest, just above where Bobby is applying pressure, and closes his eyes in concentration. He opens his eyes, looks at Bobby and says solemnly, "I can't. He is too badly damaged."

"He's what?" Bobby is incredulous, thinks he must have misunderstood. "You're an angel. Just produce a miracle."

The angel's lips thin at the simplification. "Producing a miracle doesn't mean that I can heal him. This injury is intricate, I don't have the skill to fix it."

Bobby's mouth drops open, aghast, and suddenly he's very afraid. He can feel Dean trembling under his hands, going into shock. With an _angel_ right beside them he has the unwelcome thought that Dean may die. It seems unbelievable.

Castiel gazes at Dean, deep in thought and says hesitantly, "I can slow the bleeding, keep his heart beating, but he will need medical assistance."

"Okay, then do it," the older man retorts, the squeeze in his chest loosening a little, relieved that Castiel has _some_ skills, that they're not going to sit here and watch Dean bleed out.

Castiel wrinkles his brow in offence, looks down at the hand still resting on Dean's chest then back to Bobby, silently conveying _what do you think I'm doing?_ "I would suggest you get him medical assistance quickly."

"Yeah, thanks," Bobby replies sarcastically and races inside to retrieve his cell phone, uses fingers slippery with blood to dial for an ambulance.

* * *

Bobby sits in a chair beside Dean's hospital bed with his arms folded across his chest. He had shed a few tears earlier, in the waiting room, tipped his cap down low over his eyes and let them fall, momentarily overwhelmed by the violence in the boys' lives, the amount of suffering. He's seen both of them dead! Dean ripped by hell hounds not even a year ago, Sam knifed in the back. He doesn't know how much more he can take. He doesn't know how much more _they_ can take.

Sam sits across from him, on the other side of the bed. Credit to him, when Bobby called, he hustled, got there in about half the time he said he would. There have been very few words between them. Other than Bobby reciting what happened, they have waited together in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

Dean is settled in a double room, with the other bed vacant. His prognosis is good, miraculously so, but he still had to undergo surgery and isn't expected to wake until morning. It's only late afternoon, and Bobby is eyeing the second bed speculatively, considering it a shame for it to go to waste when he is feeling bone weary, his head pounding. He turns when he hears a rustling sound, and discovers Castiel in the room.

The angel moves to Dean's side, places his hand on his chest and nods in satisfaction. "He will be fine," he pronounces.

"Give him back his memories," Bobby demands in a low angry voice. He surprises himself with the lack of preamble, he should at least thank the angel for saving Dean, but he's had a lot of time to reflect on what happened, and he's furious that Dean was made vulnerable by the angels' interference. He should have recognized Alistair. The situation would have gone very differently if he had.

"That is not within my power," Castiel returns mildly, attention still on Dean.

"Don't give me that crap," Bobby huffs. "I know that you can."

Castiel turns and regards him coolly. "I can only do it if Dean asks."

"Bullshit," Bobby snaps. "Don't make up rules. This is on you. Alistair got this close to him," he stands up and shuffles toward the angel until they are toe to toe, "and Dean had no idea who he was. No clue." He narrows his eyes and warns, "Give him back the memories. Before you get him killed."

Castiel glares at Bobby, tilts his head at the man provokingly standing his ground, staying in his space. It's a silent showdown and Bobby knows he's woefully outgunned, that Castiel could smite him with a snap of his fingers. But he's angry enough not to care, Dean is a cause worth dying for.

"Do it Cas," Sam interjects quietly. "Give him back the memories. Taking them away hasn't helped."

Castiel presses his lips together. "I have orders to follow. It is not up to me."

Bobby lets out an irritated breath, shakes his head in disappointment, steps back and mutters, "Bullshit. You could do it if you wanted."

Castiel casts his gaze back to Dean, regards him pensively for a few moments, then disappears.

Bobby sighs, give Sam a weary smile and says, "Glad we're on the same page."

"Yeah."

And they descend back into silence, neither of them feeling talkative.

* * *

Castiel doesn't leave the room, he continues to watch invisibly. He feels responsible for Dean. Ever since he rescued him from hell he feels like Dean is his personal charge. It's not proper, there should be an arms-length between angels and humans, he cannot be one man's personal savior (and Dean has never asked it of him). Nevertheless, he can't shake the feeling. When it come to this human he is in constant turmoil.

Dean rests peacefully and Castiel knows he will recover fully, he has made sure of it, shored up the work of the doctors and cleansed Dean of anything that could cause infection. He should be doing other things, heaven is losing the war against hell and he is needed, spending time at Dean's bedside is an egregious luxury. But he is incapable of directing his attention elsewhere while he is disquieted, torn between what he should do and what he has been told to do. He resents the interference in Dean's life, it feels like an affront, like his guardianship was found lacking. He's always been a good soldier, not the sort to make waves, but he finds himself questioning the wisdom of his brothers.

While Sam and Bobby sleep, deep into the morning hours, Castiel moves toward Dean. He stands close beside him for many minutes, staring at him, considering, trying to decide what is right. He needs to reach a resolution now, to return the memories or not, the issue has lingered too long and is proving distracting.

Finally, he whispers, "I'm sorry," and places a hand on the injured man's head.

Whatever decision he made he was going to be sorry.

Dean sucks in a breath, his body stiffens at the touch, but he doesn't wake, and after a moment he relaxes back into slumber. Castiel places both hands on the bed's edge, and drops his head, feeling every bit his age. He is going to be seriously reprimanded for countermanding instructions. And he's not _sure_ he did the right thing, at least that would be some consolation for the punishment. Dean isn't in danger from the unknown anymore, which is right, but he no longer has any protection from the memories of hell, and it nearly broke him before. If he could remove just a year of memories, or isolate all that occurred in hell... But those more skilled than him tried and were unsuccessful, it had never been the intention to relieve Dean of so much, the human brain is not a simple organ to manipulate. And his amateur interference could cause irreparable damage.

For better or worse, Dean is now whole again.


End file.
